■;»:ig:<T- 


\.     ^■' 


^%., 


/^ 


-r^ 


r. 


-7" 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


AN 


Historical  Romance         r 


OF    THE 


MARITIME   BRITISH    PROVINCES. 


By   CHAS.  W.    hall. 


BOSTON: 
LEE    A.ND    SHEPARD. 

1867. 


dBff'ilti'- 


'^ 


% 


;''••;! 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congresg,  in  the  year  186",  hy 

CHARLES  W   HALL, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  tlie  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


4: 


PREFACE. 


1^ 


r 

In  laying  this  little  volume  before  the  public,  the 
author  aims  to  entertain  rather  than  instruct. 

In  the  well-filled  alcoves  of  Cambridge ;  from  the 
writings  of  Cartier,  La  Hontan,  and  Champlain,  of 
Halliburton,  Stewart,  and  scores  of  others ;  from  the 
relics  of  the  old  wars  found  in  the  homestead  of  his 
ancestors,  which  has  stood  for  nearly  two  centuries, 
he  has  drawn  the  groundwork  of  this  story. 

He  has  roamed  with  gun  and  rod  in  the  forests,  by 
the  rivers  and  the  sea,  in  many  of  the  localities  named 
herein ;  and  dwelt  among  the  descendants  of  the 
Acadians,  and  the  few  remaining  representatives  of 
the  once  powerful  tribes  of  the  Abenaquis. 

He  has  tried  to  tell  this  story  as  it  should  be  told, 
m  words  redolent  with  the  resinous  fragrance  of  the 
forest  air;  passionate  as  the  lives  and  characters  of 
the  races  they  strive  to  portray,  musical  with  the 
ripple  of  waves,  the  swaying  of  boughs,  the  rush  of 


PREFACE. 


gliding  canoes,  the  many  sounds  of  the  forests,  terrible 
and  solemn,  with  the  strong  passions  of  mortals,  the 
strife  of  warring  men  and  raging  elements,  the  mystery 
of  the  soul's  existence  after  death.  But  turns,  now  that 
his  task  is  completed,  hopeless  of  success  in  attempting 
to  paint  in  words  the  creations  of  a  vivid  fancy ;  but 
in  the  hope  that  the  patient  reader  may  not  spend  his 
precious  time  without  finding  something  to  amuse  or 
instruct,  he  surrenders  his  first  work  into  the  hands 
of  the  publisher  and  a  discriminating  public. 


IPTEB 
I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

:viii. 


f 
CONTENTS. 

f 

r 

f. 

'        Faob 

Historical  and  Introductory 9 

The  Council  of  War 13 

The  Flight 18 

The  Death  of  Cubenic 27 

The  Two  Vigils 34 

The  Burial .y 

Winter  in  Camp ^5 

La  Chasse 53 

Jean  Durel.  —  Sleep-waking 68 

The  Council ^5 

Chebucto 82 

Chignecto „. 

94 

Father  Augustine jog 

The  Summer  of  '55 u^ 

Desolation J2c 

Infelix  Victor i-g 

Life  Shadows i^i 

TrACADIE jgj 

(7) 


8 


CONTENTS. 


XIX.  The  Litany  of  the  Sacred  Heart.      .    .    .173 

XX.  A  Life  for  a  Life 185 

^  XXI.  The  Confession  by  the  Sea 196 

XXII.  Thorncliffe 203 

XXIII.  The  Summons  to  Louisburg 209 

XXrV.  The  Sally 218 

XXV.  The  City  Twice  Taken 227 

XXVI.  Thirty  Years  Later 234 


•  173 

•  i85 
.  196 

•  203 
.  209 
.  218 
.  227 

•  234 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


CHAPTER  I. 
HISTORICAL  AND  INTRODUCTORY. 

IT  was  on  Monday,  the  29th  of  April,  1745,  that 
,  the  fleet  containing  the  Provincial  forces  sailed 
[from  the  Pass  dc  Fronsac  *  to  attempt  the  reduction 
[of  Louisburg  —  the  Gibraltar  of  Gallic  power  in 
lAmerica. 

The  fleet,  in  four  divisions,  and  convoyed  by  three 
[armed  vessels  in  the  service  of  the  Colony  of  Massa- 
[chusetts,  glided  swiftly  along  the  coast  of  the  "  Island 
)f  the  Cape,"  f  whose  rocky  cliffs  and  sunken  ledges 
seemed  to  threaten  insurmountable  difficulties  to  the 
[daring  invaders.  Still,  on  board  the  little  fleet  all 
[was  animation  and  high  resolve ;  and  the  little  army, 
[so  quickly  raised  and  imperfectly  equipped,  sailed  on, 
inothing  doubting  of  final  success ;  for,  indeed,  many 
I  were  fully  assured  that  they  were  to  be  chosen  instru- 
ments for  the  subversion  of  the  Catholic  faith,  and 


♦  Now  Gut  of  Canseau. 

t  Ancient  name  of  Cape  Breton 


(9) 


^3ft£aklA^<. 


'•"ff^  ■ 


lO 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


that  the  capture  of  Louisburg  was  a  portion  of  this 
grand  scheme,  to  whose  support  they  were  called. 

Louisburg,  now  a  paltry  fishing  village,  with  noth- 
ing to  tell  the  story  of  its  former  greatness  save  a  few- 
grassy  hillocks,  where  once  frowned  cavalier  and 
bastion,  was  at  that  time  at  the  zenith  of  its  prosper- 
ity. Strongly  fortified  and  munificently  supplied  by 
the  French  government,  it  was  at  once  a  naval  rendez- 
vous, a  base  of  military  operations,  and  the  resort  of 
the  vast  fleet  of  fishermen,  whose  sails  everywhere 
whitened  the  surrounding  waters.  This  fishery  is  said 
to  have  employed  about  six  hundred  sail  and  twenty- 
eight  thousand  men,  and  to  have  produced  about  five 
millions  five  hundred  thousand  dollars  annually. 

The  city,  situated  at  the  south-east  of  thf  He 
Royale,  was  built  on  a  tongue  of  land  forming  the 
western  boundary  of  its  harbor,  and  was  defended  by 
the  "  Grand  Battery  "  of  thirty-two  guns  on  the  north 
of  the  harbor,  exactly  opposite  the  entrance,  which 
was  further  swept  by  the  "  Island  Battery"  of  twenty- 
eight  guns,  on  the  west  of  the  harbor.  In  addition  to 
these  forts,  the  town  was  regularly  fortified  by  bastions 
and  ramparts,  —  the  entrance  being  a  drawbridge. 

The  expedition,  raised  in  New  Hampshire,  Massa- 
chusetts, and  Rhode  Island,  consisted  of  about  five 
thousand  men  and  five  small,  armed  vessels,  under 
command  of  General  William  Pepperell  and  Captain 
Rous,  which  was  joined  by  Commodore  Peter  Warren 
with  four  English  frigates  from  the  East  Indies.  A 
fair  wind  soon  wafted  them  over  the  threescore  miles 
which  at  morning  intervened  between  them  and  their 
destination,  and  the  fleet  came  gallantly  into  Gabarus 


HISTORICAL   AND   INTRODUCTORY. 


II 


IIS  iB^ay,  where   they  anchored  some  three  miles   below 
jc  city. 

Scarcely  had  the  anchors   reached  the  bottom  ere 
ic   boats  were   launched,    and   a  landing   party   in 
icir  places.     At  a  given  signal  they  started  in  line  for 
IC  hostile  shore ;  but,  on  a  nearer  approach,  a  strong 
)rce    appeared,   posted    to   annoy   and    resist    their 
[ttcmpt  to  land.     The  destination  of  the  flotilla  was 
langed  to  a  point  lower  down  the  bay,  and  while 
ihc  French  hastened  to  anticipate  them,  a  larger  force 
MS  landed  bctsveen  them  and  the  town.     A  sudden 
ttack  being  made  upon  the  French  and  their  savage 
Hies,  they  were  dispersed,  losing  some  twenty  men, 
[nd  the  enemy  landed  without  further  opposition. 
On  the  ensuing  Friday   a  party   of  four   hundred 
icn  took  possession  of  the  Grand  Battery,  whose  gar- 
rison had    withdrawn   after   spiking  the   guns,    thus 
lepriving  the  city   of  its  chief  defence,    and   giving 
icalculable  aid  to  the  enemy.     From  this  time  to  the 
dl  of  the  city,  which  took  place  on  the  1 7th  of  June, 
je  English,  although  hardly  worked,  and  harassed 
>y  disease,  the  natural  obstacles  of  the  country,  and 
le   irregular   warfare  of  the   Indians,  met  with   no 
lisaster  save  the   repulse  of  a   night  attack  on  the 
Island  Battery,  by  a  force  in  whale-boats,  who  were 
Repulsed  with  the  loss  of  one  hundred  and  eighty  men. 
And  now,  indulgent  reader,  we  will  leave  the  page 
)f  history,  and  the  annals  of  the  New  Englanders* 
triumph,  and  seek  the  beleaguered  city,  so  soon  to  fall 
into  the  power  of  its  determined  foes ;  once  again  to 
•ise,  Phoenix-like,  from  its  ashes  —  to  rise  again,  but 
)nly  to  fall  once  more,  and  forever. 


12 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


From  thence  we  shall  pass  through  many  scenes] 
of  joy  and  grief^  beauty  and  terror,  peace  and  conflictj 
good  and  ill ;  over  many  leagues,  by  many  shores,  erej 
we  again  stand  within  its  walls,  then,  as  now,  to  be! 
torn  by  English  missiles :  then,  as  now,  to  resist  in| 
vain. 


13 


ny  scenes] 
d  conflict! 
hores,  ere^ 
ow,  to  be- 
'  resist  in; 


CHAPTER    II. 


THE  COUNCIL  OF  WAR. 

N  the  "  Circular  Battery,"  which  covered  the  west 
gate  of  tlie  city,  an  hour  before  day,  on  the  morn- 
of  the  nth  of  June,  stood  a  group  of  four  persons, 
^Orapped  in  heavy  cloaks,  for  the  mist  and  fog  hung 
ctensely  over  the  fated  city.  Around  their  pieces  stood 
tiie  worn  and  dispirited  soldiery,  repairing  the  crum- 
bling embrasures  and  shattered  carriages,  and  prepar- 
ing to  answer  the  fire  of  the  English,  which,  for  a  few 
days  past,  had  visibly  slackened. 

The  principal  figure  of  the  group,  whose  uniform, 
•tudded  with  medals  and  crosses,  glittered  occasionally 
tween  the  folds  of  his  cloak,  was  Monsieur  Du- 
ambon,  military  governor  of  Louisburg.  The  officer 
ho  leaned  so  negligently  on  the  carriage  of  a  dis- 
mounted falcon  was  Captain  De  Courcy,  his  chief  of 
artillery  ;  the  third,  L'Our  Blanc,  or  the  White  Bear,  a 
|>etty  chief  of  the  Micmacs,  a  warrior  of  great  courage, 
iind  an  inveterate  enemy  of  the  English ;  and,  lastly, 
ather  Gilbert,  a  Jesuit  missionary.  All  were  cou- 
rsing, in  low  tones,  of  the  progress  of  the  siege,  and 
eir  prospects  of  relief. 

"  If,"  said  Duchambon,  "  we  can  hold  out  a  fortnight 
ngcr,  assistance  must  come ;  with  the  help  of  the 
eet,  now  almost  due,  from  Brest,  our  deliverance  is 


'ftK. 


.J»'' 


H 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


certain ;  without  it,  the  valor  and  self-devotion  of  the  j 
last  three  weeks  are  in  vain.  At  least,  I  have  kept  my 
word  with  the  heretic :  the  cannon  alone  hath  been ' 
my  messenger  —  an  envoy  of  hatred,  defiance,  and; 
death.  But  what  say  you,  De  Courcy,  can  we  hold| 
out  two  weeks  longer  ?  " 

The  soldier  raised  his  eyes  slowly  from  the  debris  I 
of  the  shattered  works  which  he  had  been  contem- 
plating,  and  turned  them  towards  the  governor,  whoj 
saw  in  them  nought  to  encourage,  save  the  impress  of  | 
a  soul  undaunted  by  certain  misfortune. 

"  I  fear,"  said  he,  "  that  it  is  simply  impossible.  I 
Look  at  this  bastion!  Two  weeks  ago,  sixteen  guns! 
thundered  defiance  to  the  enemy ;  to-day,  three  alone  i 
are  serviceable,  and  these,  even,  are  but  indifferently 
protected  by  the  shattered  parapet.  Our  other  works 
are  in  the  same  condition ;  our  powder  is  becoming 
scarce,  and  of  the  brave  men  who  led  our  troops  at 
the  commencement  of  the  siege,  many  have  answered 
to  their  last  roll-call,  and  sleep  undisturbed  by  can- 
nonade or  reveille.  Still,  your  excellency,  I  will 
stand  to  my  guns  for  king  and  country,  to  assist  the 
living  and  avenge  the  dead." 

Duchambon  pressed  his  hand  in  silence,  and  turned 
to  the  Chief  of  the  Micmacs,  who  stood  stoically 
smoking,  and  toying  with  the  handle  of  his  war-axe. 
"  And  what  says  my  red  brother?  Is  the  heart  of  the 
White  Bear  as  unconquered,  are  his  teeth  as  sharp, 
his  hug  as  fatal,  as  when  he  drove  the  English  dogs  to 
their  kennels  at  Annapolis  and  Canseau  ?  " 

The  Indian  drew  the  feathered  tube  from  his  lips, 
and  slowly  answered,  "  Does  any  one  doubt  the  courage 


^n^" 


THE   COUNCIL   OF  WAR. 


15 


ii  of  the  I 
kept  my 
ith  been 
ice,  and 
we  hold 


le  debris 
conteni- 
lor,  who 
press  of 

possible. 
en  guns  I 
3e  alone 
fferently 
!r  works 
^coming 
•oops  at 

iswered 
by  can- 
I  will 

sist  the 

turned 
toically 
rar-axe.  ^3 

of  the 

sharp, 
dogs  to 

is  lips, 
ourage 


of  L'Our  Blanc?  A  hundred  braves  entered  with 
him  the  city  of  the  king,  to  avenge  their  own  wrongs 
and  to  assist  the  soldiers  of  the  French  monarch. 
Save  twenty,  all  have  sought  the  happy  hunting 
ground.  But  not  alone ;  for  their  good  rifles  had 
sent  many  spirits  before  to  announce  their  coming. 
The  living  will  not  dishonor  their  fallen  comrades." 
And  the  heaving  breast  and  flashing  eye  ceased  to 
ispcak  the  presence  of  the  fiery  spirit  within,  and  the 
[warrior  smoked  in  calm  silence,  as  became  a  brave. 
The   governor   turned   to   the  Jesuit.     "  And  you, 

^Father  Gilbert?"  said  he,  inquiringly..  The  person 
iaddressed  was  a  young  man  of  about  twenty-five  years 
|of  age,  of  compact  though  slender  make,  whose  glossy 
hair  and  keen  black  eyes  contrasted  well  with  a  com- 
plexion still  delicate,  though  tanned  by  exposure,  and 
wrinkled  by  study  and  meditation.  He  answered  in 
the  quaint  manner  of  his  profession,  though  a  keen 
■observer  would  have  noticed  a  slight  dash  of  irony  in 
Ihis  tone.  "  Whatever  man  may  do  I  will  do  to  pro- 
:ect  our  good  city  '  ex  mam'dus  spoliator  is  J  Have  I 
[not  already  used  carnal  weapons,  to  the  injury  of  my 

^priestly  character,  and,  perchance,  the  great  danger  of 
my  soul?     Have  I  not  even  assisted  in  working  huge 
ingines  of  death,  of  whose  very  names  I  should  be 
itterly  ignorant?" 

"  Ay,"  answered  De  Courcy,  losing  his  gravity  for 
:he  moment,  "and,  greatly  to  my  surprise,  I  found 
that  my  education  at  the  military  school  was  little 
better  than  that  displayed  by  the  laudable  endeavors 
of  your  reverence  to  get  the  range  of  that  new  bat- 
tery yesterday.     Tete-Dieul  I'll  never  call  a  priest 


•'T*-, 


i6 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


a  non-combatant  again."  And  the  light-hearted  sol- 
dier laughed  merrily  at  the  discomposure  of  the  holy 
father. 

At  this  moment  the  fog,  which  had  so  thickly  veiled 
them,  suddenly  swept  away  to  seaward,  and,  as  if  by 
magic,  disclosed  the  English  batteries,  the  hated  red- 
cross  flag,  and  the  guns  manned  for  instant  action. 

"  Down  on  your  faces,  for  your  lives  !  "  shouted  Do 
Courcy,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word.  A  hoarse 
cheer  rang  from  battery  to  battery  along  the  works  of 
the  besiegers,  a  sheet  of  flame  swept  from  the  semi- 
circle of  forts  converging  towards  the  city,  and  shell 
and  ball  sper'.  on  their  errand  of  destruction.  The  fire, 
so  desultory  of  late,  was  renewed  with  unexampled  in- 
tensity and  precision,  and  rapidly  reduced  the  number 
of  eftective  guns  and  the  tenability  of  the  ramparts, 
while  the  little  band  of  defenders  was  fearfully  thinned. 

"  Gentlemen,  we  must  seek  a  safer  retreat,"  said 
De  Courcy,  and  was  leading  the  way  to  a  bomb-proof, 
when  he  remembered  that  he  preceded  his  chief,  and, 
with  the  punctilious  politeness  of  that  period,  has- 
tened to  correct  his  blunder.  Turning,  and  raising  his 
chapeau,  he  said,  "  Pardon,  monsieur :  lead  if  you 
please ;  I  will  follow."  Fatal  politeness !  A  sharp 
explosion  was  heard,  and  a  fragment  of  the  exploding 
missile  struck  the  breast  of  the  brave  artillerist,  who 
fell  into  the  arms  of  Father  Gilbert.  He  was  assisted 
to  the  casemate,  where  Duchambon  strove  in  vain  to 
stanch  the  life-blood  which  gushed  over  his  rent  and 
powder-stained  uniform.  He  beckoned  to  Father  Gil- 
bert :  the  monk  bent  his  head.  "  It  is  useless,"  said 
he :    "  I   have   fought  my  last  fight,  pointed  my  last 


THE   COUNCIL   OF   WAR. 


17 


ted  sol- 
lic  holy 

y  veiled 
IS  if  by 
Led  red- 
ion. 

jted  Do 
hoarse 
orks  of 
le  semi- 
id  shell 
^he  fire, 
pled  ill- 
number 
mparts, 
binned, 
said 
-proof, 
ef,  and, 
d,  bas- 
ing his 
if  you 
sharp 
loding 
t,  who 
ssisted 
Ivain  to 
nt  and 
er  Gil- 
"  said 
y  last 


im ;  it  is  all  over  with  me  and  the  city  of  the  king. 

die  content ;  but  my  poor  children  —  gallant  Hubert 
lind  denr  Rosalie  !  —  who  will  care  for  them  ?  "     The 
yes  of  the  Jesuit  relaxed  from  the  revengeful  look 

cy  had  worn  till  then,  and  became  strangely  solemn 

nd  tender,  and  his  tones  were  mild  and  consoling,  as 

e  answered,  — 

"  Grieve  not  for  your  loved  ones ;  they  shall  be  my 
i|are ;  children  they  shall  be  to  him  who  may  never 
leel  a  father's  joy  and  pride.  For  the  rest,  dying 
brother,  cast  your  eyes  to  heaven,  to  the  emblem  of  a 
pavior's  sufferings,  an  immortal's  love  ;  soon  you  will 
leave  us  for  the  martyr's  crown,  the  servant's  reward." 
iThe  dying  soldier  cast  on  him  a  look  of  gratitude,  and 
Reckoned  for  his  sword  —  a  slender  rapier,  with  a  tri- 
angular blade  and  cross  hilt.  He  gave  it  to  Father 
iGilbert,  who  held  it  before  his  eyes  until  they  beheld 
ilo  longer  the  scenes  of  earth.  That  night  a  sad 
jpi-oup,  gathered  in  the  cemetery  of  the  chapel,  hastily 
Committed  the  remains  of  the  brave  De  Co.urcy  to 
meir  mother  earth.  *  -^ 

I  Afler  this  the  fire  slackened  not  until  the  i6th,  when 

uchambon  desired  a  truce,  which  was  granted  ;  and 

e  next  day  the  city  surrendered,  with  all  its  inhabit- 
ts  and  garrison,  save  the  remaining  Micmacs,  who, 
irith  the  Jesuit  and  his  orphan  proteges^  had,  under 

over  of  the  preceding  night,  passed  through  the  hos- 

le  fleet,  and  were  far  on  their  way  to  the  Isle  of  St. 

bhn. 


■IT  t/r^'-'ir..: 


i  i 


'11 

:i  I. 


i8 


CHAPTER   III. 
THE    FLIGHT. 

ON  the  evening  of  the  i6th  the  three  remaining 
members  of  the  council  of  war  were,  for  the 
last  time,  reunited  in  the  house  of  the  governor.  The 
fire  of  the  besiegers  no  longer  drove  the  inhabitants  to  * 
their  close  casemates  for  shelter ;  for  with  the  truce 
had  ceased  the  roar  of  the  English  cannon.  They 
gazed  at  each  other  in  silence  and  gloom  ;  even  the 
stoical  Micmac  seemed  depressed  and  apprehensive; 
Duchambon  broke  the  oppressive  silence. 

"  At  last,"  said  he,  "  we  seem  to  be  conquered  —  cer- 
tainly we  are  defenceless.  The  death  of  our  brave  friend 
has  deprived  us  of  sage  counsel  and  cheery  encourage- 
ment ;  our  citadel  and  bastions  are  no  longer  tenable, 
—  their  guns  lie  beneath  their  ruins ;  our  munitions 
are  spent,  our  garrison  worn  by  watching,  and  dis- 
couraged by  losses  and  disaster.  All  is  lost  save  life 
and  honor ;  and  yet "  —  and  he  gazed  inquiringly  at 
the  White  Bear,  and  the  Jesuit,  who  held  by  the  hand 
the  children  of  De  Courcy.  L*Our  Blanc  understood 
the  look,  and  the  sorrow  of  the  brave  heart,  whose 
possessor  could  no  longer  protect  his  savage  allies,  and 
hastened  to  allay  it. 

"  Let  no  fears  for  his  red  brethren  torture  the  great 
heart  of  my  white  father.    To  the  remnants  of  the 


THE   FLIGHT. 


«9 


maining 
for  the 
>r.  The 
►itants  to 
he  truce 
.  They 
3ven  the 
hensive ; 

d  —  cer- 
ise friend 
:ourage- 
tenable, 
unitions 
iiid  dis- 
lave  life 
ingly  at 
le  hand 
lerstood 
whose 
ies,  and 

le  great 
of  the 


ns  of  the  forest  are  still  left  their  strong  hearts,  true 

Acs.,  and  swift  canoes.     To-night  the  spirits  of  the 

ist,  the  children  of  Kzimlamit*  and  Saboghwan^^ 

ill  cover  with  their  garments  rock,  channel,  sea,  and 

land.     The  spirit  of  his  ancestor,  Mambertou,  will 

atch  over  the  swift  canoes  of  the  White  Bear  as  they 

ass  the  big  war-ships ;  and  his  magical  power  will 

Im  the  waves  and  winds  that  waft  the  canoes  of  his 

scendant  to  the  Isle  of  St.  John." 

"  And,"  said  Duchambon  to  the  Jesuit,   "  I  shall 

Bave  no  difficulty  in  procuring  you  a  safe  passage  to 

France." 

"  Nay,  your  excellency,"  said  he,  while  his  form 

dilated,  and  his  features  became  radiant  with  resolve. 

I  cannot  accept  your  kind  offer ;  my  comfort,  my 

fety,  and  my  life  are  no  longer  my  own  ;  I  am  sworn 

j^L,  devote  my  all  to  the  spread  of  our  holy  faith,  the 

lonversion  of  these  benighted  tribes,  the  advancement 

0f  Catholic  power  and  domain.    Through  fire  and  flood, 

ccess  and  defeat,  peace  and  war,  in  sickness  and  in 

ealth,  I  must  still  press  onward  to  the  attainment  of 

is  glorious  end,  or,  like  my  ancestor,  Gilbert  du  Thet, 

Id  the  martyr's  crown."    Turning  to  the  chief;  he  asked, 

I*  Has  L'Our  Blanc  room  in  his  bark  for  the  Black 

obe  and  these  orphans  ?  " 

"  They  shall  first  enter  the  White  Bear's  own  que- 
;?,"  %  he  answered,  "  when  the  drums  of  the  An- 
iasheowe  §  beat  for  the  last  time  ;  the  canoes  will  lie 
Jpn  the  south  shore,  and  all  will  be  ready.     The  White 
^ear  grieves  at  leaving  his  white  father,"  continued 
Mie,  "  but  men  may  not  cry  like  squaws,    Never  agajn 

*  Air.  +  Water.  \  Canoe. 


t  W^ter, 

a 


§  English. 


20 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


will  the  rifle  of  L*Our  Blanc,  in  unison  with  the  roar  of 
cannon,  speak  death  to  the  Anglashcowc^  and  joy  to 
his  white  father.  We  meet  not  again  on  the  war-path, 
in  council,  or  wigwam  ;  but  the  chieftain  feels  that  wc 
shall  meet  hereafter,  with  the  brave  and  beautiful  who 
have  gone  before  to  the  happy  hunting  grounds,  the 
Wasook  *  of  the  Illenoo"  t  He  wrung  the  hand  of 
the  governor  hastily,  and  was  gone. 

"  Duchambon,"  said  the  missionary,  *'  we  must  part 
soon,  never  to  meet  again  on  earth.  Thou  hast  fought 
nobly  and  well  for  France  and  our  holy  faith.  Grieve 
not  overmuch  at  our  misfortunes  ;  the  English  banner 
will  not  long  pollute  these  walls,  consecrated  by  sacred 
rites  and  the  blood  of  brave  men.  In  the  future  do 
thy  duty  as  thou  hast  done ;  keep  ever  in  sight  the 
triumph  of  the  cross,  and  thy  success  is  sure,  thy  final 
happiness  certain.  The  prayers  of  the  poor  mission- 
ary Father  Gilbert  will  ever  intercede  for  thee.  May 
the  blessing  of  God  and  our  holy  church  be  ever  with 
thee." 

Just  as  the  drums  were  beating  the  "retreat"  the 
little  band  entered  their  canoes,  and,  under  cover  of 
the  friendly  mists,  glided  noiselessly  past  picket-boat 
and  frigate  into  the  open  sea  ;  and  with  favoring  winds 
passed  swiftly  by  cape  and  bay,  until  daylight  found 
them  near  the  He  Madame,  at  the  entrance  of  the 
Pass  de  Fronsac.  Here  they  concealed  themselves 
during  the  day ;  and  it  was  amid  its  craggy  recesses, 
while  seated  by  the  camp-fire,  that  L'Our  Blanc  was 
asked  by  the  priest  for  an  account  of  his  ancestor 
Mambertou. 


?!■*■. 


*  Heaven. 


t  Generic  term  ^^  Indian.'' 


>i.?'ifcl*.v.'.-*_S^1  i 


THE   FLIGHT. 


21 


2  roar  of 
d  joy  to 
Mr-path, 
that  wc 
iful  who 
inds,  the 
liaiid  of 

lust  part 

t  fought 

Grieve 

banner 

y  sacred 

iture  do 

ight  the 

thy  final 

Tnission- 

.     May 

er  with 

at"  the 
aver  of 
set-boat 
J  winds 
:  found 
of  the 
nselves 
icesses, 
nc  was 
ncestor 


The  canoes  had  been  drawn  up  on  the  stony  beach 
t  the  foot  of  a  narrow  gorge,  whose  entrance  was 
iddcn  by  a  dense  thicket  of  young  firs,  the  trunks  of 
hich  stood  so  thickly  together  that  in  some  places 
he  war-axe  of  L'Our  Blanc  had  been  called  into  requi- 
ition  to  effect  a  passage.     On  the  grassy  turf  within 
at  the  band  at  their  evening  meal,  around  a  fire  of 
ine  logs  ;  for  the  mists  of  the  evening  were  becoming 
lick  and  chill. 
Above  them,  on  the  escarpment  of  the  cliff,  stood  th» 
Sentinel,  a  lithe  and  graceful  youth,  the  nephew  of  the 
iChief,  who,  from  his  bravery  and  skill  in  swimming, 
tiad  gained  the  name  of  Cubenic^  or  The  Otter.     A 
'tnantle  of  the  rich  fur  of  this  animal  hung  gracefully 
rom  one  shoulder,  while  the  other  shone  bare  and 
cautiful  in  its  bronzed  symmetry.     As  he  stood  lean- 
ing upon  his  bow,  a  bank  of  mist  swept  up  and  filled 
'^he  gorge,  then  slowly  rose  up  the  cliff  until  the  rocks 
i^vere  hidden  from  view,  and  the  warrior  seemed  stand- 
-|ng  on  its  dense  vapors.     Still,  as  he  gazed  earnestly 
Jbff  to  seaward,  it  rose  higher  and  higher,  veiling  the 
Ringed  leggings,  the  waist  girt  with  woven  beads,  over 
^e  furred  chest,  the  symmetrical  bust  and  neck,  and 
^nally,  the  head  and  its  simple  helm,  or  rather  crest,  of 
flumes  were  no  longer  visible. 

K    The  tragical  events  of  the  past  month,  the  flight 

.  ilinder  cover  of  darkness,  and  the  weird  passage  past 

lehrouded  shores  and  rocks  enveloped  in  fog,  had  had 

|their  effect  on  all ;  and  the  good  father  asked,  half 

lightly,  half  in  earnest,  "  Is  he,  too,  a  descendant  of 

vlambertou  ?  for  his  mantle  seems  to  have  descended 

upon  him." 


■ .,-:».' .i'.-L  r^  vi_.  k 


iii 


il'  ! 


iili 


*  French. 

§  Heaven. 

**  Fire. 

t  Bowls  or  dishes. 

II  Hell. 

ft  Sea. 

X  Kennebec. 

If  Air. 

XX  Lake. 

aa  TWICE   TAKEN. 

*'  Father,"  said  L'Our  Blanc,  "  he,  too,  claims  descent 
from  the  great  sachem,  whose  spirit  is  still  believed 
to  watch  over  the  safety  of  his  descendants." 

The  Jesuit,  skilled  in  the  Cabala  of  the  East  and 
the  superstitions  of  Europe,  desiring  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  the  mythology  and  legends  of  his  savage 
companions,  pressed  the  chief  for  some  account  of  this 
celebrated  personage ;  and  the  White  Bear,  between 
the  whiffs  of  his  calumet,  spoke  thus  :  — 
ijj  "  Many  generations  ago,  when  the  big  quetans  of 

the  Wennooch  *  first  sought  our  shores,  and  the  tribes 
of  the  Abenaqui  were  as  the  sands  of  the  sea,  when 
the  settlements  of  the  white  man  were  weak  as  those 
.  of  the  ant,  and  as  easily  to  be  crushed  out,  then  lived 
our  great  ancestor  Mambertou.  First  on  the  war-path, 
and  foremost  in  the  chase,  generous  at  home,  and  wise 
in  counsel,  was  he.  The  curtains  of  his  wigwam  were 
never  fastened,  the  ouragans\  of  his  guests  never 
empty.  The  dwellers  of  the  land  over  which  shines 
'  the  star  that  moves  not,'  shuddered  at  his  name. 
His  girdle  was  fringed  with  scalps  from  the  forests 
watered  by  the  Kennebebi.\  His  counsel  was  sage 
and  unprejudiced,  his  knowledge  beyond  tliat  of  the 
wisest  of  his  tribe.  For  he  held  converse  with  the  ||  J 
inhabitants  of  Wasook^%  and  made  the  dark  spirit 
of  Mundoo-ake  ||  tremble  before  him.  To  him  bowed 
the  spirits  of  Kumlamit^  the  fierce  intelligences  of 
Puctou^**  and  those  who  inhabit  the  crystal  domes 
of  Saboghwan  ft  and  Ekketaii,  \%     And  the  tongues 


••'*'V 


THE   FLIGHT. 


23 


IS  descent 
believed 

East  and 
:oiTie  ac- 
is  savage 
nt  of  this 
between 

etajis  of 
he  tribes 
2a,  when 
as  those  ,; 
len  lived  ^ 
yrar-path,   ; 
and  wise 
am  were 
ts   never 
h  shines 
5   name. 
e  forests 
ras  sage 
it  of  the 
vith  the 
k  spirit 
1  bowed    * 
nces  of 
domes 
tongues 


Mre. 
3ea. 
Lake. 


beast,  bird,  and  fish  were  as  clear  to  him  as  an  un- 
filed lake  at  noonday.  But  he  was  the  true  friend 
the  Wcnnooch^*  and  bowed  before  Wesoulk^\  and 
elt  at  the  feet  of  Jcchuch.X  in  the  hope  of  whose 
ercy  he  died.  He  lies  in  his  last  resting-place  near 
rt  Royal ;  yet  for  many  generations  the  river  has 
urmurcd  more  gently  near  his  tomb  ;  the  birds  sing 
ore  softly  over  the  grave  of  the  great'  Autmoin.% 
JLnd  to  his  descendants  is  still  permitted  to  burn  the 
mystic  charcoal  of  the  cedar,  and  to  them  he  appears 
io  dreams  of  warning  and  encouragement,  while  his 
ipul  watches  over  them  in  all  dangers.  I  dreamed 
list  night,"  continued  he,  solemnly,  '*  that  I  saw  him 
wound  a  bear  ineflectually,  for  the  arrow  fell  blunted 
vgnd  harmless  —  a  sure  forerunner  of  death  to  one  of  his 

rce."  And  the  warrior  ceased  his  narration. 
f  The  Jesuit  sat  meditating  on  the  strange  assimila- 
tion between  the  legends  and  mysteries  of  the  Old 
World  and  the  New,  when  he  saw  the  stratum  of  fog 
,|^gin  to  grow  thinner,  giving  to  view,  first  the  tops 
imd  then  the  branches  of  the  trees'  beneath  which  he 
had  last  seen  the  Indian  Apollo.  The  branches  were 
fll  in  view,  and  foot  after  foot  of  the  trunk  appeared 
in  rapid  succession,  then  the  spreading  base,  and  at 

>j|ast  the  plateau  on  which  it  stood,  but  —  Cubetiic  was 
W  longer  there.  L'Our  Blanc  sprung  to  his  feet  with 
||  bound,  and  with  his  finger  upon  his  lip  signalled  to 
liix  of  his  band  to  follow  bin)  ;  then  seized  his  rifle,  and 

.Avith  agile  yet  silent  bounds,  they  ascended  the  side  of 
the  ravine,  while  the  remainder  of  the  band  prepared 

'^to   re-enforce   their  leader,  or  to   defend   the   camp. 

*  French.  t  God.  J  Jesus.  §  Magician. 


24  TWICE   TAKEN. 

Father  Gilbert  seized  the  sword  given  him  by  Dc 
Courcy,  and  followed  the  chief,  who  went  on  the  dan- 
gerous quest  with  the  stealthy  grace  and  cautious 
courage  of  the  tiger.  Followed  and  imitated  by  his 
handful  of  men,  he  now  glided  from  tree  to  tree  ;  now 
sheltered  himself  by  passing  behind  huge  boulders; 
and  there  screened  his  swift  approach  by  the  thickly- 
massed  young  firs,  until  he  stood  where  the  young 
sentinel  had  so  mysteriously  disappeared.  A  glance 
told  the  story  to  the  practised  wood-ranger.  The  torn 
earth,  the  tracks  of  white  men,  the  deep  indentations 
of  feet  going  towards  the  sea,  told  that  Cubenic  had 
been  surprised,  gagged,  and  borne  away  a  captive. 

At  a  shrill  whistle  the  rest  of  the  band  joined  the 
scouts  ;  and,  led  by  L'Our  Blanc,  they  swept  on  througli 
bog,  copse,  and  craggy  glen  along  the  recent  trail.  At 
last  they  saw  the  gleam  of  the  blue  water,  and  with  a 
whoop  of  defiance,  the  chief  sprang  forward,  swinging 
his  keen  hatchet  around  his  plumed  head  in  gleaming 
circles.  Closing  up  in  an  unbroken  front,  the  warriors 
cleared  the  low  bushes  that  skirted  the  beach,  but,  to 
their  disappointment,  their  prey  had  escaped  them. 

At  about  six  hundred  yards  from  the  rugged  shore, 
skirted  with  half-submerged  rocks  and  surf-beaten 
ledges,  lay  a  small  boat,  containing  six  men  and  the 
Indian  prisoner,  who  was  still  covered  by  the  blankQt 
which  had  been  used  to  blindfold  and  to  stifle  him. 
A  yell  of  baffled  wrath  broke  from  the  Indians  as  they 
saw  the  boat  pulling  oflf  in  safety,  soon  to  be  hidden 
from  view  by  the  dense  fog-bank  which  was  slowly 
rolling  in  from  seaward.  One  of  the  captors,  in  order 
to  still  further  exasperate  the  Indians,  raised  the  en- 


w^yw'  ^•'Y'w 


THE   FLIGHT. 


25 


1  by  Dc 
the  dan- 
cautious 
sd  by  liis 
ee ;  now 
•ouldcrs ; 
;  thickly- 
le  young 
A.  glance 
The  torn 
L'ntations 
enic  had 
ptive. 
ined  the 
through 
rail.    At 
:1  with  a 
winging 
earning 
iwarriors 
but,  to 
nem. 
d  shore, 
f-beaten 
and  the 
blanket 
le  him. 
as  they 
hidden 
slowly 
n  order 
the  en- 


opiuir  blanket  from  the  form  of  the  Otter,  who  in- 
ntly  stabbed  the  thoughtless  soldier  with  his  knife, 
id  a  second  dead  with  his  hatchet,  and  dove  in  the 
ection  of  the  shore.  A  moment  more,  and  all  that 
ued  was  hidden  from  those  on  shore  by  the  fog ; 
ugh  the  frequent  shots,  the  hoarse  shouts  of  com- 
l^nd  and  disappointment,  the  plashing  of  oars,  and 
ah  occasional  whoop  of  exultation,  told  of  fierce  pur- 
•ult  and  successful  expedients  for  escape.  Soon  this 
fog-bank  had  passed  onward  like  the  other  ;  but  before 
its  friendly  veil  was  withdrawn,  Cubenic,  dripping 
lilse  a  river-god,  had  joined  the  happy  band,  and  in  the 
iKpct  interval  the  boat  was  seen  pulling  stoutly  to  sea- 
ft»rd,  while  the  wounded  soldier  shook  his  clinched 
hind  at  the  reunited  warriors. 

n  reaching  the  camp  they  hastened  to  re-embark, 
midnight  found  them  sailing  north  vard,  under  the 
ms  of  the  silent  stars.  The  poor  children  and  the 
f  aried  braves  slept  soundly  in  their  narrow  limits ; 
jbnt  in  the  canoe  of  the  White  Bear,  the  Jesuit,  Cu- 
Imoiic,  and  his  uncle  sat  talking  over  in  subdued  tones 
th^  events  of  the  day  :  at  last  the  young  warrior  leaned 
hU  head  on  his  arm  and  slept  also. 

Then  said  the  missionary,  "  Does  L'Our  Blanc  still 
Jfl^c  faith  in  his  dream  of  ill-omen?  The  arrow  has 
llOt  fallen  blunted,  but  has  drank  the  life-blood." 

*'  True,"  answered  the  chief,  "  one  fell  by  his  hand  ; 
Ipt  the  other  escaped,  though  severely  wounded.     By 
hand  will  fall  the  descendant  of  Mambertou." 
'How  know  you  the  true  Magician?"  asked  the 
suit,  impressed  in  spite  of  himself. 
'  By  the  great  medal  he  wore  when  in  life,  by  his 


26 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


godlike  form,  his  massive  forehead,  and  the  eye  thai 
speaks  when  the  lips  are  silent,"  answered  he. 

Merrily  rippled  the  wavelets  against  the  smooth 
sides  of  the  swift  quetans ;  softly  blew  the  midnigh 
breeze ;  steadily  filled  the  snowy  sails,  wafting  then 
on  towards  the  Isle  of  St.  John ;  above  gleamed  tk 
starry  chart  of  the  world's  fate  and  man's  destiny,  an 
beneath  their  mystic  influence  the  subtle  Jesuit  anc 
simple  warrior  spoke  to  each  other  of  the  strange  ex 
periences  of  those  who  strive  to  pierce  with  morta 
vision  beyond  the  boundaries  of  the  other  world,  unti 
the  east  grew  lurid  with  coming  day,  and  they  sailec 
from  within  the  narrow  Pass  into  the  rougher  water; 
of  the  Strait. 

The  following  evening  found  them  entering  the  har 
bor  of  jPor^  la  jfote^  where  they  were  received  witl 
lavish  hospitality,  while  the  news  they  brought  causec 
the  utmost  uneasiness.  Still  every  precaution  possible 
was  taken  to  save  the  property  of  the  inhabitants  froir 
the  possession  of  the  English.  Effects  were  shippec 
to  Acadia  and  New  France,  while  others  buried  theii 
most  precious  movables,  and  av/aited  the  coming  of 
the  occupying  force  in  patient  resignation.  The  Mic 
macs  alone,  under  the  command  of  the  White  Bear 
prepared  to  resist  and  annoy  the  invader.  His  scouti 
watched  the  neighboring  ocean,  and  his  Dand  awaitec 
impatiently  the  coming  of  the  hated  heretic.  The 
Jesuit  continued  to  dwell  among  them,  studying  theii 
language,  noticing  their  customs  and  characters,  ano 
pointing  out  to  them  the  way  to  heaven  through  the 
atoning  merits  of  yechuch-KlU,* 

♦  Jesus  Christ. 


27 


J  eye  that 
e. 

e  smootl 
midnigh 
lin^  then 
;amed  tlit 
stiny,  ant 
esuit  anc 
range  ex 
th  morta 
orld,  iinti 
hey  sailet 
ler  water; 


g  the  har 


t 


ived  witi 
ht  caused    < 

possible 
ants  from 

shippec 

ried  theii 

)ming  of 

The  Mic 

ite  Bear 

is  scouts   1 

awaitec 
ic.  The 
hig  theii  J. 
ters,  and  -^ 
Dugh  the 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  DEATH   OF  GUBENIG. 

ILEASANTLY  passed  the  few  remaining  days  of 
the  beautiful  month  of  June,  and  the  children 
of  Dc  Courcy  had  become  somewhat  accustomed  to 
|be  strange  faces  of  their  savage  hosts,  while  Father 
filbert  spent  his  time  in  learning  as  much  as  he  could 
regard  to  all  things  connected  with  his  future 
large,  and  in  preparing  for  the  coming  of  the  Eng- 
h.  In  the  little  camp  all  were  busy  preparing  to 
|trike  some  fierce  blow  at  the  hated  race,  whose 
weachery  they  feared,  and  whose  heresy  they  con- 
<lemned.  Here  Cubenic  fitted  a  new  handle  to  the 
diarp  flint  that  served  him  as  a  hatchet,  or  trimmed 
^e  feathers  of  his  arrows,  or  polished  their  points  of 
i(8t)sidian,  while  the  White  Bear  moulded  bullets  or 
busied  himself  with  his  light  French  musket.  Even 
Father  Gilbert  sharpened  the  point  of  his  rapier,  and 
Ipoked  to  the  condition  of  his  heavy  pistols  and  short 
iearbine.  July  came  with  its  sultry  heat  and  juicy 
berries,  and  still  no  signs  of  the  expected  foe ;  even 
e  Jesuit  began  to  think  that  the  Isle  of  St.  John  had 
caped  the  notice  of  the  conquerors. 
At  last,  one  pleasant  afternoon,  as  the  missionary 
t  by  the  river's  bank,  the  wl;ite  sails  of  a  small 
rmed  galley  gleamed   against  the   red  clifTs  at  the 


•rf^^'J^VIIfy,,'-! 


28 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


harbor's  mouth,  and  was  succeeded  by  those  of  several 
transports,  sent  to  convey  the  colonists  to  France. 
Several  French  officers  accompanied  the  English, 
bearing  the  orders  of  Duchambon  for  the  rendition  of 
the  island. 

Accordingly,  the  garrison  of  sixty  men  laid  down 
their  arms,  and  the  French  habitants  at  once  ceased 
to  think  of  further  resistance.  Not  so  L'Our  Blanc. 
His  scouts  watched  every  movement  of  the  enemy  , 
with  the  closest  scrutiny,  while  his  warriors  were 
kept  ready  for  battle  at  a  moment's  notice  ;  the  camp 
had  been  removed  far  inland  for  the  security  of  the 
women  and  children. 

At  length,  one  morning,  a   party  of  English  were 
seen  to  leave  Port  la  Joie^*  apparently  with  the  idea 
of  a  short  excursion  in  view.     Although  well  armed, 
they  went  carelessly  along,    dispersing'  in    search  of  , 
berries  and  game.     Cubenic,  who  had  charge  of  the 
scouts,  caused  notice  of  their  approach  to  be  carried  to 
his  uncle,  and  retired  noiselessly  whenever  they  ap- 
proached  so   near    that    discovery   became   possible. 
L'Our  Blanc,  on  learning  their  numbers  and  the  direc- 
tion from  which  they  were  approaching,  hastened  to 
meet  them.     Placing  half  of  his  men  in  ambush  in  a 
dense   thicket   that   bordered    a   small    opening,    and  • 
charging  Cubenic  to  attack  as  soon  as  he  heard  any 
firing,  he  made  a  long  detour^  and  got  between  the 
unsuspecting  party  and  the  town.     Gliding  from  tree 
to  tree  he  saw  his  prey  enter  the  trap  prepared  for 
them,  and  wander  over  the  glade  in  search  of  berries 
until  midway  between  his  two  forces. 


♦  Now  Charlotte  Town. 


THE    DEATH    OF 


)f  several 

France. 

English, 

dition  of 

id  down 
:e  ceased 
ir  Blanc, 
e  enemy 
)rs  were 
;he  camp 
ty  of  the 

ish  were 

the  idea 

[1  armed, 

3arch  of 

re  of  the 

arried  to 

hey  ap- 

Dossible. 

le  direc- 

ened  to 

ush  in  a 

ng,    and 

ard  any 

een  the 

om  tree 

jred  for 

berries 


CUBENIC. 


29 


■f 


Father  Gilbert  lay  beside  the  Otter,  who,  sheltered 
a  fallen   log,   waited   impatiently    for   the    signal 

lley.     Foremost  and  most  cheerful  of  the  doomed 

rty  was  a  short,  thick-set  man  in  the  garb  of  a  sailor, 
hose  wounded  arm,  hung  in  a  sling,  caught  the  eye 

the  Otter,  who  pointed  him  out  as  the  man  he  had 
ounded  at  the  He  Madame.     At  that  moment  a  line 

fire  broke  from  a  copse  in  range  of  the  party,  sev- 
tial  of  whom  fell,  slain,  in  addition  to  those  wounded. 
II1C  tall  forms  of  the  White  Bear  and  his  followers 
#ere  now  seen  leaping  across  the  glade,  brandishing 
tlieir  axes  and  knives.  The  surprised  and  dismayed 
fagglers  rallied,  and  sought  the  cover  of  the  copse, 

t  received  from  thence  a  galling  fire  and  a  fierce 
onset  led  by  Cubenic  and  the  Jesuit,  who  fought  side 
Ij^  side.  Cut  down  by  the  terrible  fire  of  the  ambush, 
yprrounded  on  all  sides,  and  deprived  of  all  hope  of 
ijptrcat,  still  the  soldiers  fought  desperately,  headed  by 
the  sailor,  who  used  his  short  cutlass  and  heavy  board- 
iilg-pistols  with  deadly  eflect. 

Cleaving  a  soldier's  slioulder  with  his  hatchet, 
Cubenic  fought  his  way  through  the  press  to  the  place 
where  stood  the  mate  and  the  sergeant  commanding 
Ae  scouts,  who  stood  back  to  back,  meeting  the  heavy 
jbtc  and  keen  war-spear  with  cutlass  and  rapier.  The 
man-of-war's-man  met  the  panther-like  spring  of  the 
Otter  steadily  and  coolly.  The  heavy  blade  severed 
tibe  light  axe-shafl,  and  the  succeeding  cut  clove 
^rough  mantle  of  fur  and  beaded  baldric,  through 
p-onzed  shoulder  and  tense  sinew,  to  the  very  vitals  of 
e  stripling,  who  fell  dead  with  the  war-cry  on  his 

s.     The    warriors    drew    back  an   instant,    while 


'  ; 


30  TWICE   TAKEN. 

the   destroyer,   with   a  grim  smile,   turned  upon  the 
Jesuit. 

"  Death  to  the  vile  Papist,"  cried  he :  "  in  thee  the 
Scarlet  Woman  shall  lose  a  most  saintly  warrior  and 
the  church  militant  a  worthy  member ; "  and  he  en- 
gaged the  missionary  furiously,  cutting  and  thrusting 
so  vigorously  that  Gilbert  du  Thet  had  great  difficult} 
in  defending  himself.  Still  the  Jesuit  used  his  knowl 
edge  of  fencing  and  the  delicate  rapier  he  held  tc 
good  effect,  and  his  adversary  soon  found  himself  com 
pelled  to  cease  assault,  and  betake  himself  to  defence 
against  the  lightning  thrusts  of  the  delicate  weapon 
and  its  worthy  possessor,  while  he  called  to  the  fev; 
remaining  soldiers  to  keep  close  together  and  figli; 
their  way  to  the  town. 

But  his  hopes  were  fallacious,  for  the  White  Bear 
perceiving  his  design,  and  burning  to  avenge  the 
death  of  Cubenic,  rushed  upon  him  with  uplifted 
hatchet.  The  mate  made  his  blade  describe  a  cunt 
to  ward  off  the  impending  blow,  but  in  so  doing  laic 
himself  open  to  the  sword  of  Father  Gilbert,  whicli 
passed  through  his  heart ;  while,  at  the  same  moment, 
the  axe  of  L'Our  Blanc  beat  down  the  failing  arm 
and  clove  the  doomed  man  to  the  shoulder.  With  hi; 
fall,  despair  seized  his  comrades,  who  broke  and  rar 
in  the  direction  of  Port  la  yoie;  but  were  all  over 
taken  and  slain,  save  two,  who,  though  wounded 
managed  to  reach  a  detachment  sent  too  late  to  the 
rescue  of  their  unfortunate  comrades. 

On  the  field  of  battle  stood  L'Our  Blanc  and  tlit 
Jesuit,  victors  without  doubt,  and  surrounded  by  theii 
victims,  twenty  of  whom  lay  dead  in  the  glade  and  in 


.ILl 


upon  the 

1  thee  the 
irrior  and 
id  he  en- 
thrusting 
difficuh) 
is  knowl 
i  held  tc 
iself  com- 

0  defence 

1  weapor 
o  the  fev; 
and  fighi 

bite  Bear 
enge   the 

uplifted 
e  a  curve 
oing  laic 
whicli 
moment 

ng  aim 
With  hii 

and  rat 
all  over- 
bounded 
te  totlK 

and  the 

by  theii 

~le  and  in 


THE    DEATH   OF   CUBENIC. 


31 

At  last 


•t 


*■ 


surrounding  woods,  yet  sad  and  gloomy, 
ur  Blanc  broke  the  silence. 
'  It  was  the  will  of  Kesoulk  — the  prophecy  of  Mam- 
tou.  He  fell  in  battle  for  the  land  of  his  birth  and 
faith  of  Jechuch-Klit.  His  spirit  hath  reached 
"ffasook,  and  we  should  not  mourn  him.  Yet  the 
aiul  of  the  chief  is  lonely ;  for  Cubenic  will  go  with 
Wm  no  more  on  the  war-path ;  never  again  on  the 
btoad  snow-shoes  will  he  overtake  the  swift  moose ; 
n^er  again  guide  the  light  canoe  over  the  limpid 
Waters  ;  his  voice  will  no  more  be  heard  cheering  the 
tiiinter  with  manly  shouts,  speaking  in  low  tones  to 
ift  loved  one,  or  in  the  fierce  war-whoop  to  his  foe- 
men.  I,  the  last  male  descendant  of  Mambertou, 
eady  old  and  childless,  stand  deserted  and  alone, 
e  a  maple  spared  by  the  axe  among  its  fallen  com^ 
panions." 

*'  Our  brother,"  said  the  Jesuit,  "  has  fallen,  it  is  true, 
and  we  may  meet  him  no  more  on  earth  ;  yet  a  glori- 
iS  fate  is  his.  He  has  left  this  scene  of  blood  for  the 
en  fields  and  undying  joys  of  heaven.  His  spirit, 
Iwiving  its  shattered  mansion,  hath  joined  the  band  of 
martyrs  whose  blood  crieth  unto  the  Lord  for  ven- 
gljjance ;  his  cares  are  over,  his  battle  ended.  The 
jpft:  of  Kesoulk  hath  returned  unto  himself." 

The  warriors,  returning  exultant  from  the  pursuit, 
gazed  sadly  on  the  fallen  body  of  the  young  chief,  from 
ose  wisdom  and  valor  so  much  had  been  expected 
iwards  the  building  up  of  the  tribe,  and  their  religion, 
e  vermilion  of  their  war-paint  was  replaced  with 
lemn  black,  and  a  rustic  litter  of  green  branches 
epared,  on  which  they  tenderly  placed  the  corpse  of 


'Ill  I 


I  ' 


ill ' 


32 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


the  warrior,  together  with  his  arms  and  the  sword 
which  had  slain  him.  A  herald  was  sent  forward 
to  announce  the  news  of  the  battle  and  its  results, 
causing  great  grief  in  the  little  village,  which  grief 
reached  its  height  when  the  warriors  entered  the 
encampment  bearing  their  sorrowful  burden. 

But  although  grief  so  generally  prevailed,  the  grea: 
danger  of  an  attack  of  the  English  in  overpoweririjC 
numbers  was  not  forgotten,  and  it  was  determined 
that  the  body  should  be  committed  to  the  earth  the 
following  morning.  It  was,  accordingly,  arrayed  ir 
the  gala  dress  of  the  deceased,  and  placed  on  a  biei 
of  green  branches  sprinkled  with  flowers.  Candles, 
made  by  Father  Gilbert,  burned  around,  while  the 
Jesuit  made  a  mourning  address  and  held  mass.  The 
services  over,  Ulalie  alone  watched  the  remains  of  the 
young  chief  in  that  sacred  glade  among  the  solemr 
shadows  —  Ulalie,  the  betrothed  of  Cubenic,  who  hac 
gained  permission  to  watch  the  remains  until  sunset 
when  Father  Gilbert  would  succeed  her.  The  Jesui; 
sat  by  the  border  of  a  small  stream,  engaged  in  deef 
thought.  A  keen  desire  had  seized  him  to  learn  tha: 
which  is  beyond  the  sight  of  mortals  —  the  secrets  ot 
fate,  the  fortunes  of  the  future.  Not  his  own  destim 
did  he  desire  to  learn,  but  that  of  his  nation  and  he: 
church.  Keen  and  subtle  as  he  was,  he  bent  all  hi: 
energies  to  the  advancement  of  these  two  interests 
At  length  his  mind  appeared  to  be  settled,  and,  rising 
he  sought  the  village  to  make  the  necessary  prepara 
tions  to  carry  out  his  decision.  "  Yes,"  muttered  he 
as  he  slowly  paced  the  intervening  forest,  "  the  spirit; 
of  the  dead  shall  aid  this  work,  their  counsel  assist 


THE    DEATH   OF   CUBENIC. 


33 


the  sword 
tit  forward 
its  results, 
hich  grief 
ntered  the 
[. 

,  the  greai 
rpowerin^^ 
ietermined 
;  earth  the 
arrayed  ir 
on  a  biei 
Candles, 
while  the 
lass.     The 
ains  of  thv 
le  solemi 
who  hat 
itil  sunset, 
The  Jesui: 
i  in  deep 
learn  tha; 
secrets  ol 
'^n  destim 
and  he: 
nt  all  hi: 
interests 
d,  rising 
preparn- 
tered  he. 
e  spirit 
el  assists 


(d  direct,  their  knowledge  warn  of  danger  and  point 

\t  expedients.      I  may  perish  in  the   awful  trial  — 

ly  peril  limb,  life,  soul  even,  in  the  attempt ;  but  the 

[urch  shall   still  conquer,  the  lilies  of  France  take 

)t  and  multiply.     To-night,  by  magical  rites,  I  will 

II  the  spirit  of  Cubenic  back  to  the  scenes  of  earth." 


34 


iliii 


ii  i 


!i;ii; 


CHAPTER   V. 
THE  TWO  VIGILS. 

ULAI.IE  sat  by  her  dead  lover  in  the  little  glade, 
made  solemn  and  sacred  by  the  presence  of 
death ;  for  death  sanctifies  all  things.  Many  times 
had  Ulalie  entered  that  glade.  In  childhood  she  had 
sought  there,  with  her  playmates,  for  the  maiden's- 
hair,  with  its  oval  leaves  and  pearly  fruit,  the  delicate 
fern-leaves,  and  the  coral  clusters  of  the  partridge- 
berries  ;  and  it  had  seemed  a  bower  of  happiness  and 
mirth.  Last  night  she  had  paced  its  cool  recesses 
with  slow  and  easy  step,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  him 
who  might  no  more  support  her  thus.  Then  it  had 
seemed  the  very  temple  of  love  —  an  abode  of  bliss 
above  that  of  mortals. 

And  now,  how  changed !  The  air  seemed  heavy 
with  sorrow  ;  death  brooded  in  the  dense  foliage ;  and 
the  little  rill,  once  gurgling  and  rippling  like  the  joyous 
laughter  of  maidens,  murmured  in  sorrow  for  the  dead, 
and  wept  as  it  fell,  in  tiny  cascades,  over  root  and 
mossy  limb. 

Such  recollections  swept  across  her  memory,  and 
such  thoughts  filled  the  mind  of  the  simple-hearted 
maiden,  as  she  sat  weeping  by  the  bier  of  the  fallen 
youth;  then,  as  she. became  more  calm,  or  rather,  as 
the   violence  of  her  grief  wearied  her,  she   fought 


THE   TWO   VIGILS, 


35 


le  glade, 
sence  of 
ly  times 
she  had 
naiden's- 
!  delicate 
artridge- 
ness  and 

recesses 
1  of  him 
n  it  had 

of  bliss 

d  heavy 

J ;  and 
e  joyous 
le  dead, 
oot  and 

ry,  and 
■hearted 
fallen 
ther,  as 
SiOught  I 


Ifuge  and  relief  from  her  anguish  in  song ;  and  her 
)vc,  her  sorrow,  her  hopes  of  the  future,  found  utter- 
I  luce  in  the  following  words  :  — 

IfTlie  night-shadows  gather  slowly  and  duskily 
rcr  the  flowery  glades  and  odorous  woods  — 
),  too,  o'er  my  heart  lowers  the  shadow  of  sorrow.; 
|nd,  alas !  from  my  night  no  gladdening  sunrise  will  spring, 
)r  the  leader  of  warriors,  the  prince  of  my  heart,  is  fallen, 

||^d  I  weep  wearily  beside  his  bier. 

I  Bee  the  stag  glide  through  the  swaying  hazels, 

To  join  his  doe  amid  the  water  lilies; 

i^er  the  calm  lake  the  graceful  swans  are  gliding, 

J|o  meet  in  shadow  'neath  the  bending  willows, 
e  meet  as  well ;  but  thou,  alas,  art  silent, 
r  death's  strong  hand  hath  closed  thy  lips  forever. 


Iljjrho  was  like  thee  in  life?    Chief  of  the  Abenaquis, 
^11  and  graceful  wert  thou,  as  the  saplings  of  the  maple ; 
IPerce  and  brave,  as  the  bear  hard  pressed  by  the  thronging 
T  hunters ; 

iSoft-voiced  and  gentle  in  love,  as  the  doves  which  build  in  the 

beeches ; 
Olad  at  thy  voice  were  braves  to  mingle  in  desperate  conflict. 
As  I  to  hear  thee  ask  to  tread  life's  pathway  with  me. 

Thou  art  threading  alone  the  weird  and  perilous  passes, 
fUThere  winds  the  spirit-trail  to  the  land  of  the  hereafter; 
There  in  eternal  bliss,  in  visions  blest  and  dreamy. 
Thy  soul  serene  shall  rest,  after  life's  cares  are  over : 
Iphere  shall  thy  spirit  roam,  'mid  glades  of  unearthly  beauty; 
:^here  the  chase  shall  not  tire,  nor  ambushed  foeman  annoy 
*i  thee. 

But  I  for  many  a  day  must  wearily  sorrow  and  labor, 
llany  a  night  dream  of  thee,  and  weep  to  find  it  a  vision  ; 
all  things  find  memories  of  thee,  when  thou,  alas !  art  no 
longer; 

3 


"TV 


i 

b 


I 


I 


:Sj. 


5  ■*;'_-:«■-- 


36  TWI9I!;  TAKEN. 


^ 


And  yearning  for  thee  and  thj'  love,  live  unloved  and  deso*! 

late  ever. 
O  that  Kesoulk,  the  Creator,  would  take  back  the  life  he  hath 

given. 
That  I  might  rest  in  thy  arms,  'mid  the  unchanging  glories 

of  heaven." 

Rude  were  the  words  indeed,  and  unpolished  the 
versification ;  yet,  heard  in  the  plaintive  notes  of  the 
sweet-voiced  maiden,  and  mingling  with  the  ripple  of 
the  brooklet  and  the  solemn  sighings  of  the  trees, 
they  touched  the  heart  of  Father  Gilbert,  who  had 
approached,  unperceived,  and  stopped  that  he  might 
not  interrupt  her.  As  she  ceased  singing  she  began 
to  sob  violently  ;  and  at  last,  wearied,  she  laid  her  head. 
with  its  wealth  of  jetty  dishevelled  hair,  on  the  bier, 
and  at  last  fell  asleep,  undisturbed  by  the  Jesuit,  who. 
seating  himself  quietly  near  her,  waited  for  the  rising 
of  the  moon.  As  soon  as  its  beams  filled  the  little 
glade,  he  laid  his  hand  gently  on  the  head  of  the 
sleeper. 

"  Daughter,"  said  he,  "  the  day  has  gone ;  your 
watch  is  ended ;  leave  me  alone  with  the  dead." 

She  arose,  somewhat  bewildered  at  awakening  in 
such  an  accustomed  place ;  but  remembrance  of  her 
sorrows  and  her  loss  soon  returned.  "  O,  holy  father," 
she  entreated,  "  send  me  not  away  so  soon  :  many  times 
have  we  sat  side  by  side,  or  paced  the  level  sands  by 
the  wood-fringed  river  in  the  clear  moonlight ;  and 
to-night  is  the  last  time  we  meet  beneath  her  beams 
on  earth.     Let  me  remain  with  thee,  father." 

"  Ulalie,"  said  the  missionary,  "why  dost  thou. 
beseech   me  thus?    Thou   art  already  wearied  with! 


e  he  hath 
g  glories 


THE   TWO   VIGILS.  37 

ind  deso-^^Pef  and  want  of  food.     Retire  to  thy  cabin  and  rest, 
iajl  to-morrow  has  much   of  weariness   in    store   for 

J*  Yet,  father,"  she  pleaded,  "  let  me  remain  but  a 
fy^  hours,  for  there  are  many  yet,  ere  the  gray  sky 
ttttd  feeble  stars  speak  the  coming  of  Eskltpook"  * 
ihed  the  ^he  missionary  at  length  yielded,  and  allowed  her 
js  of  the  fof  a  time  to  renew  her  tears  and  lamentations.  At 
ipple  of  Iwt  he  said,  gently,  "  Listen,  Ulalie :  why  do  you 
le   trees,      Wp?"  ' 

vho  had  fehe  raised  herself  to  a  sitting  posture,  and  replied, 

e  might  wgpeating  his  question,  and  speaking  rapidly,  and  half 
le  beo-an  MJK^'b''  "  VVhy  do  I  weep,  father?  Because  Kesoulk 
»er  head,  N*^  taken  away  my  heart's  treasure,  the  light  of  my 
the  bier,  *lfls,  the  hope  of  my  life ;  because  he  hath  turned  to 
lit  who,  illinimate  clay  this  princely  form,  dimmed  this  noble 
le  risino  ^?»  stilled  a  generous  and  loving  heart ;  and  more, 
he  little  btWCause  I  must  live,  and  suffer  the  lot  of  those  who 
\  of  the  ^'^  without  love,  which  alone  makes  life  a  blessing. 
Igithis  a  God  of  love,  who  thus  permits  sorrow  and 
.  vour  di^lation  to  visit  his  creatures?" 
^ad."  Blame  her  not,  reader,  for  many  more  learned,  more 

.rs\^rf  ;n      cildlized,  than  she,  have  thought  thus. 
»  of  her         ^  Daughter,"  said  Du  Thet,  "  thy  sorrow  is  meet, 
father "      ^  "^^  ^^^  questioning  of  the  love  of  our  heavenly 
times      ^*8taier ;  nay,  more,  they  are  selfish  in  regard  to  the 
andsbv      deid  before  us." 
,.      \  f*  Selfish!"  said  Ulalie,  wonderingly. 

beams         f*^^^»  selfish;  for  thou  wouldst  have  him  remain 
leartn  to  be  tempt     of  evil,  to  suffer  cold,  hunger, 

st  thou 


!,l!^ 


38  TWICE   TAKEN. 

fatigue,  pain,  and  sickness,  from  which  thy  solicitudf 
could  no^t  shield  him,  which  thy  love  could  only  cheer 
God,  whose  mercy  thou  hast  questioned,  whose  good 
ness  thou  hast  doubted,  hath  but  taken  him  from  thi 
frail  mansion  of  clay ;  his  spirit  feels  no  longer  tb 
ills  of  the  body." 

"  I  have  sinned,  father,  yet  I  am  penitent.  I  knov 
that  he  is  in  a  happier  world,  yet  I  shall  never  see  hii: 
again."  And  the  poor  little  heart,  trying  so  hard  t 
be  patient  and  unselfish,  failed  to  keep  back  the  sol 
that  would  break  forth,  the  tears  that  would  flow. 

The  Jesuit  had  formed  a  determination.  He  ha: 
studied  the  character  of  Ulalie,  and  decided  to  try  k 
by  a  few  questions :  if  she  stood  the  test,  she  shoul. 
remain  with  him  in  the  solemn  scenes  through  wliic; 
he  must  pass  in  order  to  obtain  the  knowledge  li 
sought.  He  turned  to  the  young  mourner.  "  Ulalit 
would  you  like  to  watch  with  me  longer?  " 

"  O,  yes,  holy  father,"  she  answered. 

"  Are  you  not  afraid  of  his  spirit?  It  might  revisi- 
us,"  he  explained,  for  the  question  at  first  puzzled  hei 

"Afraid  of  the  soul  of  Cubenic?"  said  she,  won 
''eringly.     "  Why  should  I  fear  what  I  love  most? 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  him  once  more  in  life/ 
said  the  priest,  quickly.    . 

"  Yes !  If  my  eyes  were  quenched  forever  by  tk 
glory  of  his  coming,"  she  answered. 

"  Then  swear  to  me  by  Maliak  yechuch^*  thatwhi 
you  may  hear  or  see  this  night  shall  never  be  divulge 
to  friend  or  foe ;  that  torture  shall  not  force,  afiectioc 

*  The  Virgin  Mary. 


till 


THE   TWO   VIGILS. 


39 


solicitudr 
ily  cheer 
osc  good 
from  tlii 
Dnger  tli; 

I  kno\i 
ir  see  hi:: 
o  hard  t 
:  the  sol 
flow. 

He  ha; 
to  try  he 
tie  shoul. 
igh  whic: 
i^ledge  li; 

"  Ulalk 


ht  revisi 

zled  hei 

she,  woe 

i  most? 

in  life? 

;r  by  tk 

that  whs 
divulge 
affectiot 


ducc,  or  avarice  tempt  you  to  confess  or  reveal  any- 
in^'  of  the  visions  we  may  behold,  or  the  words  that 
e  may  licar."  And  upon  a  small  Bible  the  forest 
aidcn  swore  firmly  to  keep  her  faith  until  that  day 
i^hcii  all  things  shall  be  revealed. 

It  is  well,"  said  the  Jesuit;    and    taking  several 
rticlcs  from  a  basket,  which  Ulalie  had  not  before 
Observed,  he  proceeded  to  his  work.     With  the  help 
of  Ulalie  he  described  a  circle  of  six  feet  in  diameter ; 
.immediately  around  that,  another  of  seven,  thus  leav- 
ringa  small  space  between  them,  in  which  he  described 
.certain  crosses  and  Hebrew  characters.    Around  these 
be  drew  two  squares ;  between  these  and  the  outer 
circle  he  cut  in  the  level  sand  the  names  of  Jehovah, 
fnd  the  signs  used  by  Eastern    magi  and   mediaeval 
Sages  to  control  the  inhabitants  of  the  unseen  world. 
Between  the  inner  square  and  the  outer,  which  en- 
closed a  parallelogram  of  nine  feet  square,  were  many 
crosses  —  nine  on  each  face. 

Between  this  square  and  the  bier  he  described  three 

triangles,  in  each  of  which  he  placed  a  small  pile  of 

the  resinous  knots  of  the  pine,  and  the  charcoal  of  the 

cedar   {T/mya  occidentalis)^  deemed   sacred  by   the 

^^benaqui. 

■     These  piles,  when  fired,  threw  a  strange,  uncertain 

light  over  the  living  and  the  dead,  as  the  flames  rose 

>high  in  the  still  night  air,  or  flickered  as  the  gusts 

iwhich  had   begun   to    mingle   with   the  gentle  night 

-rnbreeze    swept   through   the    sombre   branches.      The 

esuit  lighted  a  lamp  of  antique  shape,  and  placed  it 

n  the  hand  of  Ulalie,  whom  he    led  into  the  inner 

ircle,  having  first  strewed  on  each  fire  handfuls  of 


I     1 


I'iii 


A' 


i  ill 


■■■"rf*^:. 


40  TWICE  TAKEN. 

incense  and  wild  gums,  which  sent  forth  a  thick  and 
aromatic  smoke. 

Ulalie  gazed  upward  a  moment.  The  sky,  so  clear 
a  few  moments  ago,  was  now  swept  over  by  dark  clouds, 
which  by  turns  hid  the  moon  entirely  from  view,  or 
disclosed  her  looking  through  gloomy  chasms,  or 
rugged  rifts ;  yet  she  felt  no  fear ;  —  she  was  to  see 
Cubenic  once  again. 

"  Ulalie,  be  firm  ;  stir  not  beyond  this  circle  ;  speak 
not  without  my  permission,"  said  Du  Thet ;  and, 
holding  in  one  hand  the  fatal  cutlass,  and  in  the  other 
a  small,  heavily-embossed  volume,  he  read  from  it, 
thus : — 

"  Here,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  light, 

While  the  world  seeks  rest  in  sleep, 
In  the  solemn,  mystic  night, 

We  our  magic  ritual  keep. 
Three  yards  from  the  north,  to  south, 

By  three  from  the  east  to  west, 
With  steady  hand,  and  silent  mouth, 

And  powerful  spells,  we  seal  and  bless ; 
That  no  intelligence,  howe'er 

Powerful,  in  the  world  unseen, 
Whether  in  hatred,  love,  or  fear, 

May  break  this  sacred  ring  within." 

Ulalie  saw  the  triple  lines  of  odorous  smoke  rising 
weirdly  in  the  dim  light,  as  the  succeeding  gusts  rose 
higher  and  higher ;  saw  the  clouds  driving,  like  storm- 
swept  barks,  across  an  angry  sea ;  saw  the  placid 
moon  fast  becoming  obscured  by  the  gloomy  banks  of 
strangely-shaped  clouds,  yet  felt  no  fear,  for  s/te  shoiiU 
see  Cubenic  once  more.  The  solemn  silence  wa^ 
broken  by  the  voice  of  the  Jesuit :  — 


{III 
lij 


THE    TWO   VIGILS. 


41 


bick  andl 

so  clearl 
k  clouds, 
view,  or 
isms,  or 
ls  to  see 


"   5 


speak 

et ;    and 

the  other 

from  it, 


:e  rising 
ists  rose 
le  stornv 
placid 
^anks  of 
shouU 
ice  was 


"  By  the  dread  virtue  of  that  awful  day 

When  earth  and  sea  shall  render  up  their  dead, 

By  the  fierce  fires  which  priests  and  Magi  say 
Are  the  doomed  spirits'  everlasting  bed, 

I  do  command  thee,  spirit  of  the  slain. 
To  use  thfcine  ancient  shape  and  speech  again ! 

By  all  the  yearnings  of  thine  earthly  love. 
By  the  deep  silence  of  the  mystic  night, 

By  all  earth's  sympathy  with  spheres  above. 
By  sacred  cedar,  incense,  magic  rite, 

Thy  Christian  faith,  thy  loyalty  to  France, 
Proved  upon  earth  by  deeds  with  axe  and  lance,  — 

I,  standing  by  thy  wood-surrounded  bier, 

Whereon  thy  body  lias  in  burial  dress, 
Do  summon  thy  quick  spirit  to  appear, 

On  pain  of  endless  torment  and  distress  I 
Arise !    Arise !    Obey  my  liege  commands, 

Or  pace  eternally  the  scorching  sands ! " 

Then  the  deep  voice  of  the  exorcist  was  heard  mut- 
^ing  a  strange  formula,  in  the  language  of  the  chosen 
rice  ;  and  finally,  at  a  sign,  Ulalie  joined  Du  Thet  in 
iflirice  invoking  the  name  of  the  dead  warrior.  High 
jji^ove  the  rustle  of  swaying  boughs  and  shrieking  gust 
^s  heard  the  stern  call  of  the  Jesuit,  "  Cubenic ! 
)enic  !  Cubenic  !  Appear,  I  command  thee  !  " 
)urnfully  swept  through  the  glade  the  sweet  tones 
his  companion,  as  she  cried,  "  Cubenic  !  Cubenic  ! 
ibenic  !  Appear,  I  entreat  thee  !  " 
estrange  forms,  half  opaque,  half  transparent,  were 
iw  seen  to  cross  the  glade  in  various  directions.  Gro- 
>que  visages  seemed  to  leer  from  the  overhanging 
inches,  the  beasts  of  the  woods  to  gather  around ; 
id  huge  bats  and  snowy  owls  swept  fiercely  at  the 


43 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


iliii 


heads  of  the  daring  mortals,  but  never  encroached  on  I 
the  limits  of  the  charmed  circle,  and  the  consecrated  II 
fires. 

Through  the  glade,  so   quiet  an  hour  ago,   swept' 
wailing  blasts,  the  cries  of  the  panther  and  wolf,  the 
mournful  bark  of  the  fox;  and  mingling  with  these || 
came  the  sharp  hiss  of  huge  serpents,  which  reared 
their  supple  columns  on  the  edge  of  the  charmed  circle,  -^4 
but,  at  the  sweep  or  thrust  of  the  consecrated  blade  of 
the  Jesuit,  writhed  a  few  seconds  in  seeming  agony.  '' 
and  then  were  seen  no  more.     After  a  short  interval, 
Du  Thet  again  invoked  the  unwilling   spirit;  again 
sounded  the  soft  entreaty  of  the  mourner,  and  not  ini 
vain.    Just  beyond   the   triple   columns  of  aromatic 
vapor  a  light  began  to  glimmer  through  the  smoke; 
at  first  scarcely  distinguishable,  it  rapidly  increased, 
imtil  it  seemed  to  illumine  an  oval  space,  whose  bor-j 
ders  were  sharply  defined  by  the  dense  fumes  of  the  I 
incense.     Within  the  light  a  form  began  to  develop 
itself.     At  first,  a  plumed  head-dress,  then  the  face, 
the  neck,  the  whole   person.     Cubenic   stood   again 
before  them.     Clad  in  the  same  dress  so  conspicuous 
at  every  gathering  of  state  or  pleasure,  with  his  trust}! 
bow,  keen  knife,  and  plumed  spear,  stood  the  nephew  -% 
of  L'Our  Blanc,  the  lover  of  Ulalie ;   and   still  the 
same  unearthly  light  illumined  the  simple  bier,  andj 
the  sharp  outlines  of  tlie  face  of  the  dead. 
■     The   strange  sights,  so   numerous  a  few  momentsl 
before,    sank,  one  by  one,   into  the   recesses  of  the] 
forests,  or  melted  away  into  the  surrounding  darkness; 
and  the  gusts  subsided  as  the  Jesuit  spoke. 

"  Spirit  of  the  loved  and  lost,  by  the  power  of  those  I 


K     -i 


THE    TWO   VIGILS. 


43 


)ccult  sciences  which  Christian  men  may  practise, 
3y  magical  rites,  and  the  sympathy  of  mind,  which, 
though  trammelled  in  us  by  its  surrounding  clay,  still 
lath  communion  with  the  essences  which  have,  like 
thine,  burst  the  bonds  of  time  and  flesh,  we  have  sum- 
loned  and  exorcised  thee  ;  that,  retaking  thine  ancient 
I  welling,  thou  mayst  answer  to  us  concerning  matters 
)f  great  moment  to  the  nation,  our  church,  and  our- 
selves. Therefore  I  do  permit  and  conjure  thee  to 
issume  thine  earthly  body,  and  to  address  us  as  in 
life." 

No  motion  was  perceivable  of  the  lips,  eyes,  or  form 
)f  the  apparition  ;  but  from  the  place  it  occupied  came 
clear  and  musical  voice,  which  answered  thus :  — 
"  Sage,  mortal,  simple  maiden,  the  butterfly  seeks 
|not  again  the  chrysalis  from  which  it  came  forth  a 
[thing  of  beauty  ;  neither  may  aught  but  the  power  of 
[the  Deity  fit  mortal  clay  for  the  residence  of  an  im- 
Imortal  spirit ;  yet  by  vigil,  and  the  chastening  of  tears, 
lyou  have  attained  the  power  of  seeing  the  form  I 
[now  bear.  Question  quickly  —  I  will  answer  as  it  is 
[permitted." 

Father  Gilbert  spoke  at  first  tremblingly,  but  gain- 
ling  courage   as   he    proceeded:    "My  church  I    my 
country!    must  they  be  driven  from  this  broad  con- 
Itinent?" 

The  vision  slowly  answered,   "It  is  not  yet  per- 
imitted  me  to  foresee  the  future." 

"  Hast  thou  aught  to  say  of  this  maiden  ?  "  ^ 

"  Ulalie,  thou  lovest  much,  thou  hast  suflTered  much ; 
all  souls  are  not  parted  by  death ;  thou  mayst  again 
I  hold  converse  with  the  spirit  of  Cubenic." 


44 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


ili! 


liii 


il! 


The  Jesuit  again  spoke,  in  a  language  unintelligible 
to  Ulalie,  who  stood  gazing,  in  glad  wonder,  on  the  | 
unwonted  sight  before  her :  "  By  all  that  thou  hast 
loved  on  earth,  that  thou  hopest  in  heaven,  I  conjure 
and  command  thee  to  summon  before  me  the  shade 
of  thy  great  ancestor  !  " 

The  voice  spoke  in  tones  that  seemed  to  die  away 
in  the  distance,  as  the  vision  grew  indistinct,  and 
finally  invisible :  "  Thou  hast  well  demanded,  bold 
mortal ;  I  give  place  to  an  intelligence  mightier  far 
than  I." 

The  oval  space  illumined  by  the  hidden  light  ex-  ? 
panded,  and  grew  still  more  luminous ;  and  within 
its  smoke-defined  limits,  distinguished  by  his  almost 
gigantic  stature,  by  his  majestic  head,  whitened  by 
the  snows  of  a  century,  his  regular  and  symmetrical 
features,  by  the  broad  silver  medal,  the  gift  of  the 
grateful  French  settlers,  stood  the  great  magician, 
warrior,  and  statesman  of  the  tribes  of  the  Abe- 
naqui,  the  early  convert  to  the  Christian  faith  —  Mam- 
bertou. 

Again  a  voice  was  heard ;  but  this  time,  in  tones 
that,  deep  and  stern  at  times,  at  others  seemed  tinged 
with  sadness :  "  Thou  hast  called,  I  have  obeyed. 
What  wouldst  thou  with  the  departed?" 

"  Mighty  warrior,  sage  Autmoin,  of  the  past,  tell 
me  of  the  future  —  the  decrees  of  fate  concerning 
French  sway  and  Catholic  faith." 

"  Thy  faith,  appealing  to  the  simple  niinds  of  a 
savage  but  generous  race,  shall  not  perish  as  long  as 
that  race  shall  exist.  Of  French  destiny  I  cannot 
speak  clearly ;  yet  the  star  of  French  domain  seems  to 


THE   TWO   VIGILS. 


45 


Hgible 
Dn  the 
u  hast 
onjurc 
shade 

away 
t,    and 
I,  bold  ^ 
ier  far 

;ht  ex- 

within 

almost 

led  by 

letrical 

of  the 

^ician, 
Abe- 

Mam- 
tones 

tinged 

3eyed. 

5t,  tell 
srning 

}  of  a 
)ng  as 
;annot 
;ms  to 


rane,  and  that  of  the  Anglasheowe  to  increase,  throw- 
ig  its  broad  rays  over  the  New  World.     Yet  this 
luch  is  permitted  me  to  say  —  the  sword  may  not  de- 
Side  the  contest  without  the  axe^  the  spade^  and  the 
plough." 
*'  Shall  we  meet  again,  Mambertou?  " 
"  Thrice  on  earth,  servant  of  the  church :  once  in 
light ;  again   in   the   city  twice  taken ;  lastly,  when 
lou  standest  alone  on  earth,  and  thy  days  are  num- 
)crcd :  these  arrows  shall  be  the  sign  of  my  coming ; 
vhen  one  is  missing  I  will  be  with  thee.     Farewell." 
The  form  vanished ;  the  flame-illumined  oval  grew 
)aler  by  degrees,  and  disappeared  ;  the  triple  columns 
)f  smoke  rose  vertically,  hiding  bier  and  warrior  with 
^heir  dense  fumes  ;  the  clouds  grew  gray,  and  the  moon 
)aled  as  day  approached,  and  the  watchers,  wan  and 
wearied,  stepped   from   the  charmed  circle,  and  ap- 
)roached  the  spot  which  the  weird  light  had  occupied. 
>n  the  breast  of  Cubenic  lay  a  small  casket  of  cedar 
^ood,  banded  with  gold,  and  fastened  by  a  simple 
hasp.     Du   Thet  opened  it,  and  found  within  three 
Itiny  arrows,  bound    closely   together   by  a  band  of 
[parchment.     The  shafts  were  of  cedar,  feathered  with 
[the  plumes   of   the   humming-bird,   and  tipped   with 
]  jasper.      On  shaft,  cincture,  and  barb  were  strange 
signs,  which  Ulalie  said  were  the   Indian  characters 
[for  Mambertou. 

On  the  under  side  of  the  lid,  in  the  same  strange 

[letters,  were  several  sentences,  which  Ulalie  declared 

herself  unable  to  decipher.      The  Jesuit  closed  and 

secured  the  lid,  intending  to  seek  further  information 


46 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


from  the  elders  of  the  tribe.     After  erasing  the  marks 

of  the  magical  figure  and  the  triple  fires,  they  sat  in 

\    silence  by  the  dead,  until  daylight,  when  they  were 

^  relieved  by  the  White  Bear ;  and  returning  to  the  little 

village,  they  slept  until   the  hour  appointed  for  the 

funeral  ceremonies. 


1 


% 


I 


r 


/ 


f 


„'-'^ 


-■f^**y. 


.r..^  ,.*..  ^  ,_.,,.??>■• 


47 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE  BURIAL. 


^ 


f 


IN  all  ages  and  climes,  wherever  a  people  has  re- 
nounced one  religious  belief,  and  embraced  an- 
other, however  radical  the  change  experienced,  some 
traces  of  the  old  faith  become  a  part  of  the  new,  or, 
rather,  exist  in  spite  of  the  overthrow  of  the  belief 
from  which  they  resulted  ;  and  it  was  clearly  a  proof 
of  the  good  judgment  of  Father  Gilbert,  and  of  his 
keen  insight  into  the  motives  that  swayed  his  savage 
flock,  that,  having  said  mass  the  day  before,  he  al- 
lowed them  to  honor  and  inter  the  young  chief  as 
seemed  good  and  customary  to  them. 

Shortly  after  sunrise  the  procession  was  formed, 
consisting  of  all  the  adult  portion  of  the  community, 
of  whom  each  was  dressed  in  his  best,  without  jewels 
or  garlands,  and  each  warrior  had  erased  from  his 
war-paint  every  hue  except  black,  that  color,  in  all 
ages,  sacred  to  the  King  of  Terrors.      * 

The  bier,  decked  with  new  garlands,  was  raised  on 
the  shoulders  of  four  young  braves,  who  had  taken 
part  in  the  siege  of  Louisburg,  and  had  fought  beside 
him  in  the  fatal  conflict.  Close  behind  came  two 
captives,  bearing  the  valuables  of  the  dead,  which 
consisted,  for  the  most  part,  of  weapons  and  finery. 
Following  these  walked,  in  couples,  the  old  men  of  the 


48 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


tribe,  headed  by  L'Our  Blanc  and  the  Jesuit.    After 
these   came  the  remaining  adults,  in   alternate  pairs 
of  warriors   and   women ;   but  in  no  case  was  there 
formed  a  couple  from  opposite  sexes.     Slowly  moved 
the  mournful  train,  singing  as  they  went  of  the  virtues 
of  the  deceased,  of  his  prowess  in  battle,  and  his  skill 
in  hunting;   of  the   loss  sustained  by  the  surviving 
members  of  the  noble  line  of  whose  dynasty  he  wasj 
the  last  representative  of  his  generation ;  and  lament- 
ing that,  in  the  course  of  nature,  the  time  was  not  farj 
distant   when   no  being   should  exist    having   in  his  I 
veins  the  blood  of  Mambertou.      Fitfully   rose   the 
barbaric   chant,  now  almost  exultant,  as   it   recalled  i 
the  former  triumphs  of  the  slain  ;  again  subsiding  into 
grief  for  the  generous  nature  and  loving  heart  t*aken 
from  earth   forever;    and   anon   shrieking  forth   the 
despair  of  the  nation  and  the  deep  longings  of  re- 
venge ;    ceasing  only  as  the  bier  was  placed  by  the 
grave,  which  was  excavated  beneath  a  huge  maple. 

The  dead  warrior  was  gently  lowered  into  the  grave, 
shrouded  only  by  his  war-dress,  and  coffined  in  his 
blanket:  on  his  hip  hung  the  keen  scalping-knife ; 
near  the  nervieless  hand  lay  the  massive  war-axe ;  the 
elastic  bow,  whose  twang  in  battle  had  been  answered 
by  anguished  cry  and  dying  moan,  rested  unstrung 
by  the  case  containing  its  swift  messengers  of  death, 
never  again  to  bring  down  the  swift  moose,  never 
again  to  be  heard  on  the  battle-fields  of  the  Abenaqui. 
In  the  same  grave  were  placed  the  other  valuables  of 
the  chief,  and  stores  of  food  and  fuel  for  the  spirit's 
journey  to  the  land  of  the  blessed,  and  on  the  mound 
heaped  above  him,  the  war-spear  and  shield  of  the 


THE   BURIAL. 


49 


jceased,  garnished  with  scalps,  and  hung  with  spoils 
the  chase,  formed  a  fitting  monument  to  the  memory 
the  departed.  This  done,  the  Jesuit  stepped  for- 
rard,  and  prayed  fittingly  for  the  repose  of  the  soul 
the  sleeper,  and  then  addressed  his  simple  auditory 
language  well  fitted  to  reach  the  hearts  and  affect 
10  imaginations  of  his  hearers,  and  calculated  to 
)untcract  any  doubts  existing  in  regard  to  French 
[ower,  and  its  ability  to  regain  possession  of  its 
jlinquished  territories* 

Men  of  the  Illenoo,  warriors  of  the  Abenaqui, 
lildren  of  Jechuch-Klit,  whose  messenger  I  am  to 
low  forth  his  love,  and  make  known  his  goodness 
all  seasons,  and  at  all  places  that  his  all-seeing 
[nowledge  may  direct,  I  stand  before  you  to-day  to 
)othe  your  sorrow,  and  to  bid  you  hope  for  better 
lings. 

"  A  chief  is  missing  from  your  councils ;  a  warrior 

;eks  no  longer  the  war-path  ;  a  mighty  hunter  sleeps 

le  sleep  which  ends  not  on  earth.     The  true  faith 

^ath  lost  a  brave  advocate,  the  friends  of  the  deceased 

kind  and  helping  hand,  his  nation  a  future  leader. 

'he  faces  of  the  Abenaqui  are  black,  and  their  hearts 

[re  heavy  with  sorrow :  the  Black  Robe  of  the  Wen- 

looch  sorrows  with  them,  but  still  says.  Brothers,  be 

)f  good  cheer. 

"  Brothers,  when  the  voyagers  on  the  rough  waves 
)f  Ec'kc'taan  *  see  the  moon  depart  from  heaven,  and 
Hie  stars  grow  pale,  and  fade  one  by  one  into  the 
larkness,  they  know  that  the  increased  gloom  heralds 


♦  The  ocean. 


so 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


li 


I 

i,. 


the  coming  of  the  glad  morning ;  thus  shall  it  be  witli| 
the  night  of  your  sorrow. 

^'  When  the  uncouth  insect  enshrouds  its  body  ioi 
its  self-made  tomb,  and  lies  inert  and  passive  —  when  it 
no  longer  eats  or  moves,  —  then  we  know  that,  though | 
apparently  dead,  it  will  soon  awake  to  a  more  etherd 
and  beautiful  existence.     Thus,  brothers,  is  it  with  us: 
thus  shall  it  be  with  him  whose  death  we  mourn. 

"  Brothers,  as  you  already  know,  the  Anglasheom 
have  taken  the  Isles  oi  Baccaillos  *  and  St.  Jean,  and 
you  will  soon  be  dispersed  over  this  island  and  the 
adjoining  shores   to   prepare  for   the  coming  winter, 
You  have  watched  Cobeet^  as  he  has  built  his  winterl 
habitation,    and   dammed   the    stream,    shallow  wim 
want   of  rain,    and,    the   dam  restraining   the   sparse 
floods,  the  verdure   below  has   become  parched  and 
withered  ;  but  the  heavy  showers  of  autumn  swell  the 
springs  above,  and  rills  join  the  brook  from  hills  that 
were  barren  and   dry,  until   it  becomes   a   foaming 
torrent,  that   bursts   its  bonds  and   sweeps   its  futile 
barriers  to  the  sea.     Thus  shall  it  be  with  the  enemies! 
of  the  French  king.  „ 

"  Again,  when  the  river  is  bound  by  icy  bonds,  when  I 
it  must  be  sought  for  a  time  with  difficulty,  and  its 
prison  must  be  pierced  by  the  axe,  he  who  ascends 
it  to  its  source  finds  its  pure  springs  unchained  and 
unceasing.     Such,  brothers,  shall  you  find  the  bount)| 
of  the  French  king. 

"Brothers,  bear   well   in   mind   the  words  I  have  I 
spoken,  of  reason  for  hope  of  the  soul's  welfare,  of  the 
power   and  generosity   of  the   monarch   whose  true| 

*  Cape  Breton.  t  The  beaver. 


THE    BURIAL. 


5« 


lalUcs  you  are.    Farewell,  brothers,  for  I   shall   not 

Imcet  you  all  again ;  let  us  leave  the  dead  with  God, 

and  let  the  living  return  with  strong  hearts,  and  steady 

(endeavor,  to  the  work  which  Providence  still  assigns 

Ithcm." 

♦ 

Singly  and  in  groups  the  mourners  left  the  place 
[of  sepulture,  and  sought  their  forest  dwellings,  until 
iL'Our  Blanc  and  the  missionary  remained  alone  by 
Ithc  grave,  talking  of  the  events  of  the  day,  and  the 
loccupation  of  the  island  by  the  English.  At  the 
Irequcst  of  the  Jesuit,  the  chief  appointed  a  messenger 
Iwho  should  convey  to  the  French  posts  of  Canada 
land  St.  Croix  a  note  requesting  that  the  Indians 
Ishould  be  regularly  supplied  with  munitions,  and 
Ishowing  the  necessity  of  guarding  against  the  danger 
)f  awaking  a  distrust  of  the  power  of  their  allies. 
'his  message,  sent  the  next  day,  reached  its  destination 
in  safety,  and  the  munitions  were  received  and  dis- 
tributed by  Du  Thet  the  ensuing  fall. 

From  this  subject  the  missionary  led  the  chief  to 

Ispeak  of  his  nephew,  and  finally  ended  by  asking  con- 

Icerning  the  ideas  held  by  his  people  regarding  the 

jsoul.     The  chief  spoke  in  his  low  and  solemn  tones  to 

the  following  effect:  — 

"  Father,  from  the  earliest  ages  the  immortality  of 

lan  has  been   believed  by  our  race,  and  the  sages 

)f  each  tribe  have  handed  this  down  through  many 

generations.     We  believe  that  man  has  two  souls,  one 

)f  which  sleeps  with  the  body  until  the  resurrection, 

the  other,   freed   from   the   bonds   of  the  flesh,  and 

taking  the  weapons  and  food  provided,  starts  on  the 

4 


s» 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


long  journey  which  lies  between  us  and  the  happy 
hunting-grounds  allotted  to  the  brave  and  good, 
Long  is  the  road,  and  full  of  trials;  the  shades  of  fierce 
animals  seek  to  terrify  and  devour ;  shadowy  rivers 
must  be  forded  ;  unsubstantial  mountains  be  ascended; 
slender  bridges,  as  narrow  as  the  runners  of  the 
strawberry,  be  trod,  over  fearful  torrents,  amid  incon- 
ceivable tempests.  Woe  to  the  soul  stained  with 
crime,  and  appalled  by  the  pangs  of  conscience  and 
the  consciousness  of  guilt.  Such  may  not  conquer  the 
difficulties  that  lie  between  them  and  bliss,  but  wander 
ceaselessly,  or  are  consigned  to  unending  torments  in 
the  realms  of  woe,  the  depths  of  Mundoo-a-ke"  * 

"  Is  not  such  the  still  prevailing  belief  ?  '*  asked 
Du  Thet. 

"  Yes,  father ;  but  modified  in  many  respects,  es- 
pecially in  regard  to  the  souls  of  animals,  which  were 
once  believed  to  be  immortal  also." 

*'  Does  the  spirit  ever  return  to  earth?  What  think 
your  people  in  this  respect,  L'Our  Blanc?" 

"  The  Black  Robe  asks  something  hard  to  explain, 
and  seen  by  the  sagest  of  men  but  dimly,  as  we  saw  i 
the  English  war-ships  through  the  dense  mists.  Still 
the  White  Bear  will  strive  to  explain  it  to  his  father. 
Look  at  the  ties  which  bind  the  souls  of  men  to  this 
beautiful  earth  :  is  it  not  natural  that  we  should  believe  | 
that  spirits  should  desire  to  revisit  their  earthly  dwell- 
ing-place ?  But  strong  must  be  the  cause  that  draweth 
back  from  the  realms  of  bliss  a  soul  which  hath  once| 
performed  the  weary  journey." 

"Of  what  nature,  then,  are  the  spirits  which  arej 

♦  The  Indian  hell. 


THE    BURIAL. 


53 


believed  to  have  the  power  of  disclosing  themselves 
to  mortal  vision?"  asked  the  Jesuit. 

"  Such  as  still  wander  over  the  shadowy  realms  of 
space,  whose  journey  is  not  completed ;  those  who 
expiate  a  life  of  wickedness  under  the  gloomy  reign 
of  Mundoo;  *  such  as  have  been  murdered,  whose 
blood  is  not  yet  avenged  ;  and  the  spirits  of  good  men 
drawn  from  their  life  of  bliss  above  to  save  or  serve 
tlie  faith  and  country  to  which  they  devoted  them- 
selves on  earth.  Yet  to  some  of  our  sages  of  the 
past  all  spirits  were  accessible  in  Mundoo-a-ke^  or 
Wasook^X  Puctow  §  or  Saboghwan"  || 

"  Has  no  tradition  handed  down  the  means  they 
employed,  the  arts  they  exercised?"  inquired  Du 
Thet. 

"  It  is  not  clearly  known  now,  for  many  moons 
have  passed  since  such  ceremonies  have  been  per- 
formed among  us,  and  the  source  is  now  unknown 
through  which  the  spirits  spake  to  our  fathers." 

The  Jesuit  had  described,  on  a  piece  of  bark,  the 
characters  engraved  on  the  lid  of  the  casket  so  mys- 
teriously placed  in  his  possession.  "  Can  my  brother 
read  this?"  he  inquired. 

The  chief  started  with  an  exclamation  of  surprise, 
as  he  saw  the  ancient  characters,  and  after  studying 
them  intently  for  some  time,  slowly  read  as  follows :  — 

"  The  strong  will  readeth  the  fates  through  the  will 
that  is  weak. 

"  The  concentrated  glance  may  kill  —  can  part  the 
soul  from  its  house  of  clay. 


*  The  devil.        f  Hell.         J  Heaven.        §  Fire.        1|  Water. 


54 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


i't 


i   II 


"  May  dismiss  it  to  bring  back  tidings  from  Mundoo- 
a-ke  and  Wasook, 

*'  Let  sages  read  and  ponder,  discern  and  use,  but 
abuse  not." 

The  chieftain  would  have  asked  concerning  the 
source  from  whence  the  Jesuit  had  obtained  his 
knowledge  of  the  ancient  symbols  of  his  tongue,  and 
the  meaning  of  the  legend  he  had  interpreted ;  but  a 
sign  from  the  priest  warned  him  that  it  would  be  use- 
less to  question,  and  they  walked  homeward  in  silence. 

The  next  day  the  camp  broke  up,  and  the  mis- 
sionary accompanied  the  chief  and  his  band  in  their 
wanderings  over  the  island,  in  search  of  game  and 
fish,  during  the  remainder  of  the  summer  season ;  and 
the  orphans,  under  the  care  of  Ulalie,  improved 
wonderfully,  and  seemed  to  feel  no  fear  of  their 
savage  protectors,  until  the  winter  drew  near  and  the 
tribe  were  again  united  in  their  winter  quarters  at 
Port  la  Joie. 

Here,  in  due  season,  arrived  a  small  shallop  from 
Montreal,  with  the  supplies  requested  by  Du  Thet.  The 
boxes  were  landed  and  placed  in  the  hands  of  L'Oiir 
Blanc  for  safe  keeping,  a  packet  of  letters  for  Du  Thet 
delivered,  and  the  captain,  fearing  pursuit  by  some 
English  cruiser  or  Provincial  letter  of  marque,  hoisted 
his  sails,  and  the  missionary  was  again  left  to  the 
solitude  of  savage  life. 

The  guns,  knives,  axes,  ^eads,  powder,  bullets,  and 
other  presents  were  distributed  impartially  among  the 
warriors,  and  Father  Gilbert  addressed  them,  with 
more  than  usual  fluency,  on  the  subjects  which  the 
gifts  suggested,  viz.,  the  liberality  of  the  French  mon- 


THE   BURIAL. 


55 


arch,  and  the  return  due  him,  which  could  only 
be  paid  in  increased  activity  in  annoying  and  de- 
stroying the  English  and  their  settlements. 

But  the  increasing  cold  warned  them  that  it  was 
too  late  to  attempt  anything  that  year,  and  therefore 
all  turned  their  attention  to  preparation  for  the  com- 
ing winter.  The  slight  lodges  of  summer  were  ex- 
changed for  the  warmer  wigwams,  whose  stout  poles 
and  heavy  covering  should  defy  the  blasts  and  frosts. 
The  hunters  brought  in  hundreds  of  geese  and  ducks, 
and  the  moose,  and  bear,  yielded  up  their  warm  furs, 
and  nourishing  flesh,  to  their  untiring  enemies. 

And  soon  the  da3?s  grew  short,  the  snow  covered 
the  dead  vegetation  with  its  pure  mantle,  the  frozen 
waters  of  river,  lake,  and  brook  afforded  a  safe  and 
level  road,  the  waters  of  the  strait  were  bound  in 
icy  fetters,  and  winter  reigned  supreme. 


','  i  i^f- '.'"if ■  ■>•-'■: 


Jiiiiih 


iP    111 


56 


CHAPTER  VII. 


WINTER   IN    CAMP. 


ALTHOUGH  the  intense  cold  and  fierce  snow- 
storms forbade  any  attempt  to  invade  the  Eng- 
lish settlements  on  the  neighboring  shores,  and  the 
studies  he  delighted  in  could  no  longer  be  prosecuted, 
still  the  Jesuit  was  far  from  being  unemployed.  A 
member,  as  it  were,  of  the  chieftain's  household,  he 
studied  intently  the  language  and  customs  of  the  tribe, 
and  the  personal  characteristics  of  its  members.  Lis- 
tening interestedly  alike  to  the  traditions  of  the  sages 
and  the  legends  of  the  maidens,  to  the  lore  of  the  war- 
chief  and  the  prattle  of  children,  he  won  the  hearts  of 
all ;  and  his  simple  flock  looked  up  to  him  with  love 
for  his  kindly  manner,  and  veneration  for  his  office. 

A  skilful  botanist,  he  had  gathered,  from  the  woods 
and  fields,  remedies  which  relieved  the  sick  and 
soothed  the  wounded ;  and  this  knowledge  he  freely 
imparted  to  all.  In  like  manner  he  taught  many  of 
the  warriors  to  form  various  weapons  and  utensils 
from  the  iron  taken  from  stranded  vessels,  and  even  to 
convert  them  into  steel ;  while  the  women  rejoiced  in 
the  brighter  colors  which  he  enabled  them  to  give  to 
the  plumes  of  the  war-eagle  and  the  quills  of  the 
porcupine. 

The  twins,  under  the  care  of  Ulalie,  grew  rapidly, 


II 


WINTER    IN    CAMP. 


57 


and  spoke  with  equal  fluency  their  mother  tongue  and 
the  soft  gutturals  of  the  Micmac  dialect.  The  favorites 
of  the  village,  they  were  welcomed  to  every  cabin,  but 
lived  for  the  most  part  in  that  of  L'Our  Blanc.  Let 
us  visit  them  there,  gentle  reader. 

It  is  a  cold,  gusty  day  ;  the  light,  dry  snow  sweeps  in 
suffocating  clouds  over  the  frozen  harbor,  enveloping 
objects  a  few  scores  of  yards  distant  in  impenetrable 
obscurity ;  but  the  Indians  have  provided  against  the 
dangers  of  straying,  and  a  line  of  young  firs  set  in  the 
ice  indicate  the  way  to  the  forest  encampment.  On 
the  beach  under  the  low  clifls  of  red  sandstone  lie  the 
birch  canoes,  sheltered  from  the  drifts  which  cover 
them  by  a  hurdle  of  branches ;  and  stepping  up  the 
cliOs,  a  narrow  path  is  found  leading  into  the  dense 
and  primeval  forests.  Following  its  intricate  wind- 
ings through  glades  of  evergreens  loaded  with  snow, 
whose  icy  foliage  seems  heavy  with  ermine  and  dia- 
monds ;  past  huge  beeches,  from  whose  mail-clad  limbs 
the  blue  jay  screams  as  he  notes  the  approach  of  man  ; 
through  copses  of  hazel  and  young  maples,  scaring  the 
partridges  from  their  meagre  winter  diet  of  buds  and 
pine-seeds,  —  we  at  last  come  to  a  small  grove  of  maples, 
whose  huge  trunks  are  surrounded  by  a  dense  under- 
growth of  young  firs  ;  and,  sheltered  by  these  from  the 
cold  north  wind,  before  us  lies  the  Indian  village,  con- 
sisting of  some  twenty  huts. 

The  dwelling  of  L'Our  Blanc  stands  in  the  centre. 
It  is  square  at  the  base  (unlike  the  airy  summer 
lodges),  and  the  poles  of  the  frame  are  stout  and  nu- 
merous. The  bark,  chosen  with  care,  and  sewed 
together  with  the  roots  of  the  hacmatac,  reaches  nearly 


hlii' 


S8 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


\ 


to  the  top,  leaving  a  small  orifice  for  the  escape  of  the 
smoke.  Outside  of  this,  a  layer  of  the  flat  twigs  of  the 
fir,  several  inches  in  depth,  and  kept  in  place  by  heavy 
poles,  forms  a  wall  impervious  to  cold  or  rain.  A 
heavy  bear-skin  serves  as  a  door.     Let  us  enter. 

Within,  a  couch  of  soft  fir  twigs  (whose  loose  ends 
are  confined  by  a  flexible  pole  fastened  down  by  wobcl- 
en  staples)  extends  around  three  sides  of  the  cabin. 
On  '  ground  in  the  centre  burns  a  small  fire,  part 
c"  whose  smoke  finds  its  way  to  the  sky  above  by 
means  of  the  orifice  at  the  top,  while  the  remainder 
mingles  with  the  purer  air,  respired  by  the  inmates  of 
the  wigwam.  On  the  left,  as  we  enter,  are  seated  the 
children  and  their  nurse  Ulalie,  on  the  right  JVuspem, 
the  wife  of  L'Our  Blanc,  and  at  the  end  opposite  the 
door  —  "the  best  room,"  the  "seat  of  honor"  —  are 
L'Our  Blanc,  the  Jesuit,  and  Loup  Cervier,  a  visitor 
from  a  village  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  harbor,  and 
a  noted  warrior. 

At  the  feet  of  each  lies  a  small  bundle  of  old  iron  — 
bolts  worn  to  half  their  original  size  by  the  sharp  teeth 
of  the  corroding  waves,  hoops  from  drifting  casks,  and 
nails  drawn  from  fragments  of  sea-worn  wrecks.  An 
axe-head  driven  firmly  into  a  heavy  block  serves  as 
anvil,  and  with  their  hatchets  they  shape  into  arrow- 
heads the  metal  softened  in  the  fire  of  seasoned  maple ; 
and  as  the  barbs  take  shape  and  polish,  they  plan  ex- 
peditions against  the  heretic,  and  recount  the  deeds  of 
the  past. 

Wuspem  (the  summer-lake)  sits  silently  listening 
to  the  conversation  of  the  men,  and  fastening  the 
feathers  of  the  war-eagle  to  the  slender  shafts  of  ash. 


\ 


WINTER    IN   CAMP. 


59 


A  loose  skirt  of  heavy  blue  cloth  reaches  from  the 
waist  to  the  knee  ;  and  leggings  and  moccasons,  heavily 
embroidered  with  gaudy  beads  and  quills  of  the  por- 
cupine, complete  the  costume,  for  the  warmth  has 
caused  her  to  lay  aside  her  heavy  mantle  of  rich 
beaver. 

Ulalie  is  busily  dividing  the  sinews  of  the  bear  and 
deer  into  threads.  Rosalie  occupies  her  lap,  while 
Hubert  plays  with  a  tiny  bow  and  arrows. 

As  the  afternoon  wears  away,  the  wind  rises  and 
penetrates  even  the  dense  growth  that  surrounds  their 
dwelling ;  the  driving  snow  obscures  the  vision,  drifts 
up  the  path,  and  sifts  in  at  the  entrance ;  the  gusts 
moan  and  roar  by  turns  as  the  trees  rock  and  bend  be- 
fore their  fierce  assaults  ;  the  shadows  of  night  add  new 
horrors  to  the  storm,  and  the  inmates  of  the  Ouagan  * 
lay  aside  their  labors,  and  sit  listening  to  the  fury  of 
the  storm. 

The  simple  meal  of  dried  venison  has  been  eaten, 
and,  as  Loup  Cervier  rises  as  if  to  depart,  the  lodge  is 
heavily  shaken  by  a  gust  that  moans  and  whistles 
through  the  trees,  and  then  is  lost  in  the  roar  of  those 
that  succeed  it. 

"Let  Loup  Cervier  remain,"  said  the  chief;  "the 
storm  spirits  are  abroad  in  anger  to-night." 

Loup  Cervier  said,  as  he  slowly  seated  himself, 
"  How  the  cold  icebergs  and  cruel  waves  will  heave 
and  seethe  around  the  Isle  of  Gou-Gou  to-night !  She 
will  go  hungry,  however,  for  the  sea  bears  no  canoe  at 
this  season." 

"  Of  what  do  my  brothers  speak  ?  "  asked  Du  Thet. 


♦  Wigwam. 


66 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


The  Indians  spoke  among  themselves  in  low,  myste- 
rious whispers  for  several  moments,  as  if  unwilling  to 
comply  ;  but  at  last  Loup  Cervier  spoke  thus  :  — 

"  Let  the  Black  Robe  listen  to  a  tale,  which  even 
now  causes  the  hearts  of  warriors  to  feel  the  unwonted 
sensation  of  fear — a  tradition  of  the  long-ago,  a  legend 
of  the  tribes  of  the  Abenaqui.  Many  generations  have 
passed  away  since  the  tribes  of  the  Souriquois  *  met 
together  to  carry  fire  and  axe  into  the  lands  of  the  far- 
oft'  Esquimaux,  under  the  leadership  of  our  great  Saga- 
mo  Mambertou.  The  French  settlers  saw  with  alarm 
the  huge  fleet,  the  fortified  villages,  and  thousands  of 
braves  prepared  for  the  war-path ;  for  then  our  num- 
bers were  as  the  leaves  of  the  forest.  After  a  few  days 
of  preparation  and  sacrifice,  the  warriors  set  out  on 
their  perilous  journey  ;  and  ever  their  sharp  prows  held 
their  way  to  the  north-east,  past  bay  and  river,  portage 
and  gulf,  reef  and  headland,  until  they  all  assembled 
on  the  Isle  of  Natiscotek.^  Thence,  crossing  to  the 
main  land,  they  fell  like  panthers  upon  the  villages  of 
the  Innuit:  scores  of  scalps  loaded  the  belts  of  the 
warriors,  and  their  canoes,  laden  with  spoils  and  cap- 
tives, turned  homeward  in  triumph.  Among  the  Mic- 
macs  none  had  borne  a  more  distinguished  part  than 
Kchi  Cobeet^  The  Great  Beaver,  whose  blood  flows  in 
the  veins  of  Loup  Cervier,  and  who  was  second  in 
command  to  Mambertou.  The  love  that  existed  be- 
tween them  was  unbroken  by  jealousy,  and  often  by 
turns  they  had  rescued  each  other  from  the  breaking 

♦  The  Indians  of  Nova  Scotia  and  New  Brunswick  were 
once  so  called, 
t  Anticosti.  ^ 


WINTER   IN  CAMP. 


6x 


ice,  the  yawning  waves,  and  the  perils  of  the  chase 
and  the  war-path. 

"  For  several  days  the  wind  had  been  fair,  and  the  sea 
as  smooth  as  a  summer  lake  ;  the  fleet  had  swept  past 
Gachepe,  and  were  crossing  the  bay  to  the  south,  when 
a  sudden  storm  arose.  Dense  clouds  obscured  the 
sun;  huge  banks  of  mist  drove  over  the  waters,  at 
times  hiding  one  canoe  from  another ;  for  several 
hours  the  fleet  swept  onward  with  fearful  rapidity  ;  but 
no  accident  had  occurred,  and  through  the  fog  they 
caught  glimpses  of  a  small  island,  behind  which  they 
might  land  in  safety ;  and  shouts  of  joy  and  words 
of  encouragement  were  exchanged,  when  suddenly  a 
sound,  grand  even  in  its  threatening,  rose  high  above 
the  howling  of  the  storm  and  the  roar  of  the  breakers. 

"A  captive,  who  had  been  adopted  into  the  tribe  with 
fear  in  every  word,  and  horror  in  every  feature,  called 
aloud  that  all  was  lost ;  but  his  further  words  were  un- 
heard, for  the  receding  mists  disclosed  a  spectacle 
which  enchained  the  senses,  while  it  benumbed  the 
spectator  with  mortal  fear. 

"  In  the  direction  of  the  desired  haven,  dimly  seen 
through  the  mists,  towering  above  the  angry  waves,  as 
a  pine  towers  above  the  hazels,  with  the  foaming  break- 
ers lashing  its  white  waist,  stood  a  majestic  and  awful 
being.  The  massive  frame,  the  tower-like  neck  and 
white  arms,  the  long  tresses  of  jetty  hair,  the  face,  beau- 
tiful even  in  its  terrible  anger,  were  those  of  a  woman, 
and  some  said  that  huge  sea  monsters  played  around 
her.  And  still,  as  the  sea  swept  her  gleaming  sides, 
and  the  tempest  brought  the  doomed  canoes  nearer,  the 
song  of  her  anger  rose  higher,  drowning  the  roar  of 


63 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


the  warring  elements.  Still  the  canoes  swept  towards 
her ;  and,  as  the  first  upset  in  the  breakers,  the  terrible 
beauty  snatched  its  occupants  from  the  waves,  but  not 
to  save,  for  they  were  seen  no  more  on  earth.  Some 
seized  their  trusty  bows  ;  but  the  arrows  fell  harmlessly 
from  her  mountainous  sides,  and  the  canoes  of  Mam- 
bertou  and  the  Great  Beaver  swept  side  by  side  for  the 
last  time  within  a  score  of  yards  of  the  monster  whose 
form  was  momentarily  hidden  by  the  fog.  On  drove 
the  canoes ;  but  just  as  Mambertou  began  to  believe 
the  danger  past,  he  saw  the  flash  of  a  huge  white  hand, 
which  overturned  the  canoe  of  his  friend,  and  he  be- 
came senseless.  When  he  came  to  himself,  he  lay  by 
a  fire  on  the  main  land,  with  a  clear  sky  above,  and  the 
sea  calm  and  motionless  at  his  feet.  Diligently  he 
searched,  by  shore  and  reef,  for  the  friend  of  his  j^outh 
and  the  companion  of  his  wanderings ;  but  a  shattered 
paddle  and  a  broken  bow  alone  remained  to  tell  the 
fate  of  the  Great  Beaver  and  his  unfortunate  com- 
panions." 

The  warrior  finished  his  tale,  and  after  a  few  mo- 
ments of  silent  thought  laid  himself  down  to  rest,  and 
soon  his  listeners  followed  his  example ;  but  many 
times  during  the  night  the  howling  of  the  storm  called 
to  the  mind  of  the  Jesuit  the  weird  tale  of  Loup  Cer- 
vier,  and  the  terrible  chant  of  the  Indian  Siren,  as  the 
green  waves  rocked  the  crashing  icebergs  around  the 
Isle  of  Gougou. 


63 


CHAPTER   VIII. 


LA    CHASSE. 


WHEN  the  Jesuit  awoke  the  next  morning,  he 
found  his  host  busily  preparing  his  weapons, 
and  learned  that  the  sudden  snow-storm  had  been 
succeeded  by  as  sudden  a  thaw,  and  that  the  warriors 
of  the  tribe  were  about  to  set  out  on  a  hunting  expe- 
dition along  the  coast.  He  accordingly  loaded  his 
carbine,  placed  knife  and  pistols  in  his  belt,  ate  his 
breakfast  of  dried  venison,  and  awaited  the  gathering 
hunters. 

In  a  short  time  these  had  assembled,  to  the  number 
of  some  two  score,  accompanied  by  as  many  dogs  ;  but 
these,  at  the  word  of  the  chief,  were  sent  back,  with 
the  exception  of  his  own  dog  Wa-abe  ("Whity"), 
and  several  others  equally  stanch  and  well  trained. 
The  wind  during  the  night  had  veered  to  the  south- 
west, and  now  its  warm  breath  was  rapidly  melting 
the  snow  wreaths  from  evergreen  and  maple,  and  the 
drifts  from  fallen  log  and  sandstone  ledge,  while  the 
snow  covering  of  the  harbor  ice  became  discolored 
here  and  there,  showing  the  presence  of  the  gathering 
waters  below. 

As  the  hunters  proceeded,  they  began  to  search  the 
snow  for  the  tracks  of  game.  At  first,  nothing  pre- 
sented itself  but  the  delicate  imprints  of  the  squirrels, 


64 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


i;!l,4l 
i  '111 


which  chattered  shrilly  at  the  intruders  between  the 
intervals  devoted  to  their  repast  of  pine  cones,  or  the 
parallel  tracks  left  by  the  velvet-shod  hare,  as  he  noise- 
lessly sought  his  feast  of  juicy  buds.  To  these  the 
warrior  paid  no  attention ;  but  the  boys,  with  their 
small  bows,  crimsoned  the  snowy  fur  of  the  hare  with 
his  life-blood  :  nor  was  his  lofty  perch  and  leafy  screen 
any  protection  to  the  hapless  squirrel. 

Soon  the  rain  fell,  and  each  warrior  covered  bow 
string   and   musket   lock  with  the  fold  of  his  heavy 
blanket,  while  the  chief  informed  Du  Thet  that  such 
weather  was  most  favorable  ;  at  which  announcement 
the  missionary  wondered,  but   patiently  awaited  the 
solution   of  the    mystery.     Soon   an  exclamation  of 
gratification  was  heard  and  repeated  along  the  line, 
and  L'Our   Blanc  signified  that  the  trail  of  several 
foxes  had  been  found.     "  Surely  he  will  now  put  his 
dogs  upon  the  trail,"  thought  Du  Thet,  as  he  called  to 
mind  the  gay  hunting  parties  and  musical  hounds  of 
Chantilly  and  Sens,  in  dear  old  France  ;  but  they  were 
carefully  called  in,  and  half  a  dozen  hunters  followed 
the  tracks,  which  converged  until  they  entered  a  small 
thicket,  which  was  instantly  surrounded.     Loup  Cer- 
vier  entered,  and  several  foxes  sprang  forth,  only  to 
be  speared  or  knocked  on  the  head,  while  the  warrior 
brought  out  a  magnificent  black  fox,  limp  and  lifeless, 
struck  down  as  it  emerged  from  the  hollow  log  in 
which  they  had  sought  shelter  from  the  rain,  which 
would  otherwise  have  left  their  plume-like  tails  and 
long,  warm  fur  a  wet  and  unsightly  mass.     Securing 
the  skins  to  a  high  branch,  they  rejoined  the  main 
party,  who  were  approaching  the  coast  on  the  track 


J,* 


LA   CHASSE. 


6s 


of  a  white  bear,  whose  plantigrade  feet  left  impressions 
strikingly  similar  to  tliose  of  the  human  foot.  Follow- 
ing the  trail,  they  soon  reached  the  bluffs,  from  which 
L'Our  Blanc  peered  cautiously  down,  and  then  beck- 
oned to  Du  Thet  to  draw  near  and  view  the  scene 
which  presented  itself. 

From  west  to  south  all  was  ice  —  ice  in  level  ex- 
panses of  miles  in  length  and  breadth  ;  ice  in  broken 
fragments  and  heavy  pyramids  ;  ice  in  fanciful  mounds 
and  glittering  pinnacles.  Still  here  and  there  a  small 
spot  of  steely  blue  appeared,  the  haunts  of  the  walrus 
and  sea  wolf.  At  a  short  distance  from  the  land  ice 
lay  one  of  these  pools,  and  on  the  ice  near  it  dozed  a 
huge  seal.  Du  Thet  threw  his  carbine  to  his  shoul- 
der, but  the  chief  restrained  him.  **  See  !  we  shall  get 
both,"  said  he,  pointing  to  an  object  which,  until  then, 
the  Jesuit  had  failed  to  distinguish  from  the  surround- 
ing hummocks,  but  which  he  now  saw  was  the  bear, 
which,  in  his  earnest  pursuit  of  the  seal,  little  suspected 
the  interesi  excited  by  his  own  movements.  Now 
moving  cautiously  but  quickly  on  the  floes  to  some 
sheltering  hummock,  picking  his  way  across  the  float- 
ing fragments  which  skirted  the  ice-foot,  or  rolling 
himself  into  a  huge  white  ball  when  the  wary  seal 
turned  his  half- shut  eyes  landward,  he  at  last  attained 
a  position  from  whence  a  single  bound  would  precip- 
itate him  upon  his  unsuspecting  prey. 

Gathering  himself  for  the  effort,  he  sprang;  and 
scarcely  were  his  fangs  fastened  in  the  throat  of  the 
sea  wolf,  than  the  ice  gave  way,  and  both  disappeared 
beneath  the  surface.  A  death  struggle  took  place  in 
the  pool,  which  was  lashed  into  foam  as  the  combat- 


f 


mrnr 


66 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


ants  writhed  beneath  its  surface ;  but  soon  the  foam 
grew  red,  and  the  bear  came  up  to  the  light,  dragging 
the  huge  carcass  of  the  dead  sea  wolf,  which  he  drew 
across  the  ice-foot  to  the  beach  beneath  the  bluff'. 

"Let  my  brother  fire,"  said  the  taciturn  chief;  and 
Du  Thet  threw  his  carbine  to  his  shoulder  and  aimed 
between  the  fiery  eyes,  which  glared  angrily  at  the  un- 
expected intruder.  The  carbine  rang,  the  huge  mon- 
ster fell  by  the  side  of  its  victim,  and  the  hunters,  with 
yells  of  triumph,  poured  down  the  cliff'  in  eager  race, 
followed  by  Du  Thet  with  unloaded  musket — a  neg- 
lect nearly  fatal. 

For,  as  the  foremost  approached,  the  bear,  which 
had  only  been  stunned  by  the  bullet,  rose  to  its  feet 
and  charged  upon  them,  and,  as  the  agile  savages 
evaded  him,  held  his  way  up  the  bluff*,  until  the  aston- 
ished Jesuit  saw  his  terrible  foe  almost  within  sword's 
length  of  him.  Throwing  down  his  gun,  he  turned 
and  fled  ;  but  even  as  he  fled  felt  that  flight  was  use- 
less, as  the  fiery  breath  of  the  monster  fanned  his  cheek, 
and  the  rattle  of  the  terrible  claws  sounded  nearer  on 
the  icy  ledge.  But  help  was  near ;  for  the  Indian 
dogs,  cheered  on  by  L'Our  Blanc,  fell  fiercely  upon  the 
haunches  of  the  bear,  and  drew  his  attention  to  them- 
selves, as  the  Jesuit  fell,  exhausted  and  despairing; 
the  keen  points  of  a  score  of  spears  and  arrows  clashed 
in  the  sides  and  throat  of  the  bear,  and  he  fell  motion- 
less, with  the  fierce  light  fading  from  his  glassy  eyes, 
as  the  hot  foam  congealed  on  his  livid  jaws. 

With  a  silent  prayer  of  heartfelt  gratitude,  the  Jesuit 
rose  and  went  forward  with  the  hunters.  It  were  long 
to  tell  too  minutely  how  they  pierced  the  bounding 


LA    CIIASSE. 


67 


caribou  with  swift  arrows,  or  slew  the  stately  moose, 
wearied  by  his  heavy  gallop  through  the  drifts,  whose 
icy  crust  gave  way  beneath  his  bounds  and  lacerated 
his  limbs,  or  how  others  slew  the  beaver  in  his  bat- 
tered fortress,  and  the  musquash  in  his  pond-surround- 
ed abode.  The  hunters  have  passed  away,  and  the 
moose,  the  caribou,  and  beaver  live  only  in  the  legends 
of  the  past;  and  although  the  black  bear  still  prowls 
at  night  around  the  fold  of  the  backwoodsman,  his 
fiercer  cousin  has  gone  northward,  to  the  wilds  of 
Anticosti  and  Labrador. 

Unconscious  of  the  changes  which  a  century  was  to 
make  in  the  numbers  of  their  race  and  the  denizens 
of  their  island,  the  hunters  returned  joyfully  to  camp, 
laden  with  venison  and  furs,  and  a  grand  feast  in  the 
lodge  of  L'Our  Blanc  finished  the  day's  hunt.  Huge 
joints  and  choice  morsels  disappeared  as  if  by  magic, 
and  at  the  close  of  the  feast  many  were  the  compli- 
mentary orations  and  wondrous  stories.  Many  were 
the  recitals  of  brave  deeds  done  by  those  present  and 
by  the  ancestors  of  the  chief  in  the  long-ago,  on  the 
stormy  rocks  of  Labrador,  the  lonely  isle  of  Natiskotek 
and  "  the  country  of  the  little  dog,"  Mass  edzick^''^  the 
land  of  great  mountains."  Few  of  my  readers  in  these 
f'*  nge  names  of  the  geography  of  an  almost  extinct 
race  will  recognize  the  modern  names  of  Anticosti 
and  Massachusetts. 

On  awakening  next  morning,  the  missionary  found 
that  the  fatigues  of  the  preceding  day  had  been  too 
much  for  him  ;  and  for  several  days  he  was  confined 
to  his  wigwam,  carefully  nursed  by  Wuspem  and 
Ulalie. 

5 


''I' 
!!'■  ■■.'.! 


11 


68 


mi 

i;:  inifi;! 

•  I    '    :  " 

i-iii':::!!! 


CHAPTER  IX. 
JEAN  DUREL.  — SLEEP-WAKING. 

ON  the  third  day,  as  Du  Thet  was  lying  on  the 
deer-skins,  that  served  him  as  couch  and  cover- 
ing, he  heard  some  one  in  conversation  with  the  chief, 
who  soon  entered,  followed  by  a  man,  the  lineaments 
of  whose  features  bespoke  European  ancestry,  though 
their  dark  hue  and  the  savage  cut  of  his  garments  told 
of  habits  assimilating  to  those  of  the  Abenaqui.  He 
was  tall  and  powerful,  clad  in  deer-skin  leggings  and 
hunting-shirt,  both  profusely  fringed  with  the  same 
material,  but  a  heavy  coat  of  homespun,  with  cufl's 
and  collar  of  rich  beaver,  replaced  the  Indian  Bia- 
keet^*  or  Petu-gan-oson,  In  a  broad  belt  at  his 
waist  liung  hatchet,  Waghon^^  the  ornamented  hilt  of 
the  latter  resting  on  his  left  hip  ;  but  he  carried  a  heavy 
musket,  and  the  shining  butt  of  a  pistol  protruded 
from  its  holster  by  the  side  of  his  knife.  Crimped 
moccasons  of  sea^  -skin  completed  his  outre  costume. 
Even  his  speech  partook  of  this  semi-savage  nature,  as 
he  became  garrulous  and  taciturn,  imaginative  and 
matter-of-fact,  by  turns. 

The  skilful  hands  of  Wuspem  soon  prepared  some 
food,  of  which  he  ate  voraciously,  while  the  inmates  of 
the  lodge  remained  silent  until  his  meal  was  finished ; 


*  Blanket. 


t  Knife. 


t'^.\j:   .i.,*"-'-v>-t--:  -.^ 


JEAN   DUREL.  —  SLEEP-WAKING. 


69 


then,  filling  his  pipe,  he  watched  the  smoke  curling 
lazily  upward  for  a  moment,  and  then,  turning  to 
L'Our  Blanc,  remarked,  — 

"  The  Sea  Gull  has  eaten  and  is  refreshed.  Has 
the  White  Bear  anything  to  ask  of  him?" 

'^  Where  has  my  brother  made  his  nest  for  the  long 
winter  months,  and  why  comes  he  hither?  " 

''  When  the  snows  are  deep  and  the  ocean  is  white 
with  snow  and  ice,  the  braves  mend  their  arms,  and 
the  chiefs  take  thought  for  future  forays,  and  trace  out 
the  direction  of  the  war-path  and  the  course  of  the 
war-canoe." 

"  It  is  well :  my  brother  is  welcome  ;  let  him  speak 
with  the  Black  Robe,  who  is  eager  to  speak  with  one 
of  his  own  race ; "  and  the  trapper,  or  rather  voya- 
gcur^  —  for  he  combined  the  qualities  and  professions 
of  hunter  and  fisherman,  —  turned  to  the  Jesuit. 

"  I  am  both  glad  and  surprised  to  find  you,  for  I  had 
no  idea  that  a  priest  remained  within  a  hundred 
leagues  of  here." 

"  And  I  am  equally  glad  and  surprised  to  find  that 
I  am  not  the  only  European  upon  the  island.  Have 
you  any  companions?  " 

"  There  are  many  such,  who,  like  me,  took  to  their 
boats,  or  in  nitricate  creeks  or  leafy  thickets  eluded 
the  accursed  heretics,  and  whose  huts  now  stand  by 
the  ponds  of  St.  Pierre,  the  sand  dunes  of  Tracadie, 
and  the  wild  haven  of  Kaskambec." 

"What  name  have  you?  and  why  did  you  speak 
of  yourself  as  the  Sea  Gull?"  asked  Du  Thet. 

The  voyageur  answered,  "  By  our  people  I  am 
called  Jean  Durel,  Le  Pecheur,  but  by  the  lUenoo  the 


\\m 


I 

mm 


ill 


ip- 


:!illll! 


ijiijjj! 


70 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


Sea  Gull,  for  I  dwelt  mostly  upon  the  sea,  living  by 
the  fishery  and  the  spoils  of  the  English ;  but  since 
last  summer  I  have  dwelt  with  my  wife  and  little  ones 
about  eight  leagues  to  the  eastward." 

"  You  spoke  to  the  chief  of  some  plan  you  had  in 
prospect  of  foraging  against  the  settlements  of  the 
English  —  did  you  not?  " 

"  Yes,  your  reverence  ;  and  if  the  chief  will  accom- 
pany myself  and  my  three  sons,  it  will  go  hard  if  we 
do  not  fill  the  old  shallop  and  our  ammunition 
pouches  with  the  spoils  of  the  Anglasheowe*  What 
says  the  White  Bear?" 

"  L'Our  Blanc  will  be  ready  with  four  of  his  war- 
riors, who  will  be  glad  to  accompany  the  Sea  Gull  in 
his  flight,  and  to  share  with  him  the  prey  that  never 
escapes  him." 

"  Such  an  enterprise,"  suddenly  exclaimed  the 
Jesu't,  "  is  laudable,  and  generally  worthy  of  you 
both  ;  but  I  am  sure  that  y^u  will  abandon  it  when  I 
tell  you  that  greater  honors  and  richer  spoils  await 
you.  I  may  not  now  tell  you  even  what  little  I 
know ;  but  when  the  summer  begins  we  must  meet 
here  with  boat  and  ''  quetan,"  with  pa-as-cowee  *  and 
majoctalegan^*  for  we  must  not  be  absent  when  the 
soldiers  of  the  great  king,  and  the  braves  of  the 
Abenaqui,  gather  and  sweep  the  hated  and  accursed 
English  from  the  continent." 

"  When  the  waves  of  the  strait  gleam  unfettered  in 
the  sunlight,  and  the  brant  grow  heavy  with  fatness, 
and  prepare  to  seek  the  northern  coasts,  then  the  Sea 
Gull  will  fold  his  wings  and  rest  on  the  waves  of  the 

*  Gun  and  arrow. 


JEAN   DUREL.  —  SLEEP- WAKING. 


71 


river  of  the  north-east,  ready  for  sea  or  wood  path, 
flight  or  pursuit,  feast  or  battle." 

"  And  the  claws  of  the  White  Bear  will  be  sharp, 
and  his  teeth  ready  for  banquet.  L'Our  Blanc  is 
eager  once  more  to  cry  forth  the  war-whoop  of  his 
race,  and  to  lead  his  braves  to  the  attack." 

After  a  few  more  remarks  the  conversation  flagged, 
and  Durel  dropped  asleep,  fatigued  by  his  long  march, 
and,  on  his  awakening  the  next  morning,  set  out  on 
his  return,  promising  to  meet  them  at  the  time  and 
place  appointed. 

For  several  days  after,  the  hours  passed  wearily  with 
the  sick  missionary,  who  spent  his  time  for  the  most 
part  in  bringing  to  mind  the  scenes  of  his  past  life, 
and  in  laying  plans  for  the  future ;  but  at  last  he 
turned  his  thoughts  to  the  study  of  those  around  him, 
and  especially  to  Ulalie. 

For  several  weeks  the  Jesuit  had  noticed  a  change 
in  her  manner,  which  had  lost  its  former  cheerfulness, 
and  had  assumed  an  abstraction  and  melancholy  that 
at  times  raised  doubts  regarding  her  sanity.  Often 
she  sat  with  eyes  half  shut,  or  fixed  on  vacancy,  silent 
for  the  most  part,  but  sometimes  moving  her  lips  as 
if  in  conversation  with  some  unseen  personage ;  and 
when  her  words  were  audible,  the  name  of  her  lost 
lover  seemed  to  be  often  repeated. 

One  day,  as  he  sat  musing  over  the  lore  of  the  mid- 
dle ages,  and  the  history  of  the  oracles  of  Greece  and 
Italy,  he  was  tempted  to  test  the  case  before  him,  and 
to  see  if  similar  results  were  not  obtainable,  by  the 
power  of  a  will  acting  upon  a  mind  less  powerful.  To 
his  great  surprise,  after  several  trials  he  found  that  he 


d 


^  .  ki    i.kl^l^  lK. 


HMMaiMi^ 


72 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


I  Sill 


possessed  the  power  of  producing  this  somnambulistic 
state  at  pleasure,  and  that,  while  under  its  influence, 
she  was  entirely  at  his  control,  although  all  attempt  to 
obtain  knowledge  of  the  future  met  with  ill  success, 
for  she  replied  with  broken  sentences,  or  said  that  si: 
did  not  know. 

But  at  last,  one  day,  noticing  that  she  was  assuming 
the  dreamy  expression  that  characterizes  the  incep- 
tion of  the  mesmeric  state,  he  concentrated  his  will 
upon  her,  and  after  a  few  moments  bade  her  come 
to  him.     She  obeyed. 

"  What  does  my  father  wish  ? "  she  feebly  mur- 
mured. 

"  To  learn  the  future,"  he  answered.  "  Look  for- 
ward. Pythoness  of  the  New  World,  to  the  things  that 
are  to  come.  Rend  the  dark  veil  from  the  face  of 
Destiny.  Tell  me  the  future  of  my  race,  the  fate  of 
my  nation's  counsels  :  what  seest  thou,  Ulalie?" 

The  maiden  stood  at  first  with  bowed  head  and 
dreamy  attitude ;  but  as  the  words  of  the  priest  rose 
higher  and  more  entreatingly,  she  seemed  to  arouse 
herself,  and  stood  with  foot  advanced  and  face  bending 
eagerly  forward,  as  if  striving  to  penetrate  some  deep 
obscurity.  She  spoke  at  first  hesitatingly,  then  more 
boldly,  and  finally  in  a  dejected  tone.  "  I  see  thick 
volumes  of  rising  vapors,  as  on  the  night  when  Ulalie 
saw  spirits  enshrined  in  flame,  and  departed  warriors 
in  the  garb  they  wore  on  earth.  The  vapor  is  broken 
by  a  faint  ray,  that  widens  and  grows  in  glory,  and 
within  its  smoke-defined  halo  Cubenic  arises  as  in  life, 
and  smiles  upon  unhappy  Ulalie  ;  and  thus  he  answers 
the  demands  of  the  will  that  controls  my  being :  '  To 


'^,'ZV.'''^"  '  !■      >  - ^'"•"v.    1 


JEAN   DUREL.  —  SLEEP-WAKING. 


73 


thee,  servant  of  the  church,  is  still  vouchsafed  the  answer 
on  which  hinges  the  dominion  of  thy  race  on  this  con- 
tinent —  an  answer  whose  meaning  lies  hidden  within 
it,  as  the  fire  sleeps  in  the  cold  malse:  *  "  The  sword 
may  not  decide  without  the  hoe,  the  axe,  and  plough." 
The  voice  is  silent,  the  vision  fades ;  but  instead  I  hear 
the  sweep  of  angry  waves  and  winds,  and  the  sullen 
roar  of  guns  from  storm-driven  barks,  which  bear  on 
their  swaying  spars  the  banner  of  the  great  king.  I 
see  them  driven  widely  apart  or  ii?gulfed  in  the  waves. 
And  now  the  scene  changes,  and  I  see  a  quiet  haven 
with  the  remnant  of  the  sea-worn  fleet  within  its  hill- 
surrounded  basin,  and  by  its  waters  stand  the  wig- 
wams of  the  Abenaqui,  and  tents  of  the  Wennooch 
like  drifts  on  the  frozen  strait  for  number.  I  see  the 
gleam  of  arms,  and  the  forms  of  many  braves,  whose 
hearts  are  eager  for  war ;  but  the  pestilence  hovers 
above  them,  and  the  air  is  heavy  with  death.  The 
charm  of  the  Autmoin  avails  not,  and  the  remedies  of 
the  French  are  in  vain ;  for  the  Wennooch  sleep  far 
from  their  kindred,  and  the  strength  of  the  Abenaqui 
is  broken  forever.  The  great  chief  of  the  Wennooch, 
too,  falls  by  violence,  and  not  in  battle."  Here  her 
excitement  became  so  intense  that  the  missionary 
hastened  to  awake  her,  which  he  easily  accom- 
plished, and  found  that  she  had  no  rec^ollection  of 
what  she  had  said  or  seen  in  her  involuntary  sleep ; 
but  for  many  days  after,  the  Jesuit  pondered  over 
the  weird  vision  and  the  hidden  meaning  of  the  twice- 
repeated  prophecy.  Still,  in  spite  of  his  forebodings 
of  evil  fortune,  he  relaxed  not  his  efforts,  but  rather 


\\ 


%.t 


1.  i     I 


;',K 


■'\    i 


i 


*  Flint. 


r-'    I! 


Ilt!iil!i 


74 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


worked  with  renewed  vigor  in  preparing  his  savage 
allies  for  the  coming  campaign ;  and  still  later  he  sat 
with  the  warriors  over  the  fires  of  maple,  forging  from 
rusty  bolts  and  sea-gnawn  spikes  barbs  for  the  swift 
arrow  and  deadly  lance,  or  the  wedge-like  point  of 
the  casse-tHe^*  while  the  old  men  told  weird  legends 
and  stormy  traditions  of  the  heroes  that  were ;  for 
with  them,  as  with  more  civilized  nations,  the  bravest 
and  best  are  never  among  the  living,  but  "  lived  long 


ago. 


» 


And  as  the  days  flew  by,  his  weakness  left  him,  and 
he  joined  again  in  the  pleasures  of  his  host,  now 
spearing  fish  through  openings  in  the  harbor  ice,  or 
drawing  the  speckled  trout  from  frozen  rivers,  batter- 
ing the  winter  castle  of  the  sagacious  beaver,  or  the 
isolated  mounds  of  mud  and  grass  m  which  the  musk- 
rat  spends  his  long  nap  ;  or,  again,  hunting  the  state- 
ly moose  and  ferocious  bear,  and  more  rarely  engaged 
in  desperate  strife  with  huge  sea  wolf,  or  tusky  walrus 
on  the  treacherous  sea  ice. 

Thus  passed  the  winter,  until  the  cutting  north  wind 
gave  place  to  a  breeze  from  the  balmy  south,  and  the 
sun  rose  higher  in  the  heavens,  melting  the  snovv- 
wi'eaths  from  evergreen  and  beech,  and  wasting  the 
drifts  from  path  and  ledge,  while  the  half-melted  snow 
covered  the  wave-worn  surface  and  treacherous  air- 
holes of  the  harbor  ice. 

Until  the  hunters  built  their  ice  huts  on  the  floe- 
covered  points  near  the  first  ice  openings,  and  from 
their  shelter  shot  ill-fated  Senunk  \  as  he  headed  his 
weary  phalanx,  seeking  food  and  rest  from  their  long 


*  War-club. 


t  The  wild  goose. 


■Hi 


JEAN   DUREL.  —  SLEEP-WAKING. 


IS 


journey,  or  the  chattering  brant  as  they  swept  and 
wheeled  over  the  coveted  feeding-grounds,  while 
ducks  of  many  species  darkened  the  waters  and  sky 
with  their  myriads,  and  filled  the  camp  of  the  Illenoo 
with  food. 

Until  massy  floe  and  ciystal  berg  ceased  to  come 
and  go  with  the  dark  tide  into  which  they  had  sunk 
at  last,  and  the  dusky  red  of  the  clifls  was  unbroken 
by  glistening  drifts,  while  the  woods  were  fragrant 
with  bursting  buds  and  vocal  with  the  love  notes  of 
returning  birds. 

Anu  again  weapons  were  mended  and  sharpened, 
and  each  long-neglected  queta7t  taken  from  its  winter 
covering  and  closely  examined  ;  worn  or  broken  ribs 
replaced,  unstitched  fastenings  repaired  with  tough 
fibres  of  the  hacmatac,  the  cracked  gum  removed, 
and  new  melted  and  applied,  and  paddles  and  sails 
prepared  for  use ;  for  many  leagues  of  rough  sea  and 
rocky  coast  lay  between  them  and  their  destination. 
A  new  canoe  was  added  to  the  fleet,  —  the  work  of 
L'Our  Blanc,  —  full  twenty  feet  in  length,  wide  in  the 
waist,  full-ribbed,  sharp  at  stem  and  stern,  covered 
with  unbroken  bark  from  an  enormous  birch,  and 
engirdled  with  figurcs  curiously  embroidered  with 
quills  of  the  porcupine  variously  colored. 

And  now  all  was  ready,  and  they  waited  only  for 
the  coming  of  the  directions  of  the  French  leader  and 
Jean  Durel. 


h 


u  \ 


76 


CHAPTER    X. 


THE   COUNCIL. 


NOR  did  they  long  await  either,  for  when  the 
glades  were  white  with  strawberry  blossoms,  and 
the  brant  grew  heavy  with  fatness,  loath  to  rise  from 
their  feeding-grounds,  in  the  sunny  month  of  June, 
the  white  sails  of  the  Sea  Gull  flitted  in  between  the 
red  cliffs  at  the  harbor's  mouth,  and  glided  beneath 
the  guidance  of  Durcl  to  her  anchorage  in  front  of  the 
picturesque  summer  encampment.  On  the  deck  stood 
the  wife  of  Durel,  and  his  three  tall  sons,  clad,  like 
their  father,  in  the  spoils  of  the  chase,  and  armed  with 
knife  and  rifle. 

Their  bark  was  a  large  fishing-boat,  such  as  may  still 
be  seen  among  the  Acadians  of  the  Gulf,  about  twenty- 
five  feet  long,  with  full  bows,  sharp  stern,  and  carrying 
a  mainsail,  a  foresail,  and  jib.  She  was  half  decked 
forward,  forming  a  small  cabin,  in  which  her  crew 
could  take  shelter  from  cold  and  wet.  Of  course  she 
carried  all  the  worldly  goods  of  the  Durels,  which 
comprised  little  beyond  furs  and  peltries,  and  the  flax- 
wheel  of  Madame  Durel. 

A  few  days  passed  and  a  canoe  arrived  from  the 
main  land,  bringing  despatches  from  M.  De  Ramsay, 
who  was  then  leading  a  force  of  hunters  and  Indians 
into  Nova  Scotia.     The  bearer,  a  tall  coureur  du  bois^ 


" .  r-  F-'fr-wwr'^t^  fw.<.  •',  ?j~\'r 


THE   COUNCIL. 


77 


sprang  from  his  canoe,  and  was  met  by  Du  Thct,  who 
opened  the  missive,  while  the  chief  ordered  that  the 
messenger  should  be  cared  for,  and  then  hastened  to 
summon  his  braves  to  the  Fire  of  the  Council. 

One  by  one  they  gathered,  and  sat  down  on  the 
green  turf  beneath  a  huge  maple,  which  was  sur- 
rounded by  sombre  pines.  In  their  midst  the  mystical 
fire  was  kindled  by  an  aged  warrior,  and  as  the  sun 
declined  in  the  west,  and  the  shadows  began  to  deepen, 
its  red  glare  lighted  up  the  space  around  it,  gleaming 
on  glittering  axe  and  keen  cassc-tete^  brazen  buckle 
and  medal  of  silver,  giving  to  view  some  youthful  form 
resplendent  with  beaded  belt  and  plumy  coronet,  or 
lending  a  fiercer,  craftier  expression  to  the  faces  of 
those  whose  thick  war-paint  could  not  conceal  the 
scars  of  by-gone  battles.  For  there  were  those  pres- 
ent who  had  fought  the  English  rangers  on  the  woody 
banks  of  the  Kennebebi ;  had  driven  the  trembling 
settlers  to  the  block-houses  of  Annapolis  for  shelter ; 
had  spoiled  the  villages  of  the  seal-fed  Esquimaux,  and 
seen  the  ramparts  of  Louisburg  crumble  beneath  the 
cannon  of  Pepperell  and  Warren. 

And  as  they  sat  in  patient  silence,  they  thought  ex- 
ultantly of  the  deeds  of  the  past,  and  longed  again  to 
tread  the  war-path,  again  to  poise  the  deadly  rifle, 
and  oppose  the  keen  axe  to  the  bayonet  of  the  heretic. 
And  the  young  warrior  thought  of  his  future  glory,  of 
the  loved  eyes  that  would  fill  with  tears  at  his  depart- 
ure, and  beam  with  joy  and  pride  at  his  return ;  and 
in  fancy  he  became  a  chief,  and  led  his  tribe  to  battle, 
his  voice  powerful  in  council,  his  wigwam  filled  with 
the  spoils  of  the  English  and  the  gifts  of  the  great 


! 


11 


[M 


t 


78 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


king.  But  neither  saw  above  them  the  shadowy 
wings  of  the  destroyer,  whose  prowess  was  to  hiy  the 
veteran  low,  whose  stern  hand  should  still  the  yearn- 
ings of  a  young  and  ardent  ambition.  At  last  the 
chief,  accompanied  by  Du  Thet,  took  his  place  in  the 
circle.  He  spoke  as  follows  :  "  Warriors,  the  arm  of 
the  White  Bear  is  strong  to  do ;  but  his  brother,  the 
Black  Robe,  excels  him  in  council :  from  him  you  will 
hear  the  wishes  of  our  father,  the  great  king." 

Du  Thet  addressed  them  thus :  "  Braves  of  the 
Abenaqui,  the  frozen  river  has  burst  its  bonds  above, 
the  rivulet  has  been  swollen  by  the  bounteous  rains, 
and  their  feeble  barriers  scarcely  resist  the  torrent 
which  will  soon  sweep  them  in  ruin  to  the  sea.  For 
the  fleet  of  my  master  is  sweeping  the  ocean  in 
strength  unknown  before ;  its  masts  are  as  the  trees  of 
the  forest,  and  the  armies  it  bears  as  the  leaves  for 
number. 

"  Again,  as  of  yore,  3'ou  shall  sleep  beneath  the 
battlements  of  Louisburg,  and  ply  the  paddle  along 
the  calm  waters  of  the  Bras  d'Or ;  again  you  shall 
tread  the  fields  of  Port  Royal,  and,  fearless  of  English 
cannon,  bend  in  reverence  over  the  graves  of  your 
fathers,  and  listen  to  the  sighing  of  the  river,  as  it 
lingers  by  the  tomb  of  Mambertou. 

"  But  now  there  are  many  waters  to  be  crossed, 
many  leagues  of  rocky  coast  to  be  passed,  ere  we  land 
in  the  quiet  haven  of  Chebucto.  Let  all  things  be 
ready  ere  the  moon  rises,  for  to-morrow  evening  must 
find  us  camping  by  the  Pass  de  Fronsac." 

Soon  all  was  bustle  and  hurry,  as  the  camps  were 
taken  to  pieces,  and  their  covering  of  bark  rolled  up 


THE    COUNXIL. 


79 


and  placed,  with  the  other  baggage,  in  the  canoes  which 
lav  ready  to  receive  their  crews,  when  the  signal  for 
embarkation  should  be  given. 

Qiiickly  the  canoes  were  loaded,  and  occupied  by 
their  crews,  and  as  Du  Thet  followed  his  proteges^  the 
children  of  De  Courcy,  on  board  the  Sea  Gull,  her  an- 
chor was  taken  aboard,  her  sails  given  to  the  breeze, 
and  followed  by  the  white-winged  canoes,  she  glided 
from  the  sliatlow  of  the  sombre  firs  into  the  moonlit 
channel,  and  held  her  way  past  point  and  headland, 
disiirmed  fortress  and  deserted  village,  to  the  waters 
of  the  open  strait. 

All  night  long,  under  the  mild  summer  moon,  the 
litdc  fleet  held  their  way  to  the  south-east,  and  the  next 
day  found  them  running  down  the  coast  of  Nova  Sco- 
tia, beneath  the  high  bluffs  of  Cape  St.  George  ;  and  the 
wind  still  continuing  favorable,  they  landed,  late  in 
the  afternoon,  on  the  left  shore  of  the  entrance  of  the 
Pass  de  Fronsac,  or  Strait  of  Canseau.  The  voyagers, 
cramped  by  so  long  a  confinement  in  the  narrow  lim- 
its of  their  canoes,  soon  restored  the  circulation  of 
their  blood  by  exercise,  and,  after  a  hearty  meal,  were 
glad  to  secure  a  good  night's  rest. 

It  would  require  too  much  space  to  detail  the  events 
of  their  voyage,  or  to  describe  all  the  varied  scenes 
through  which  they  passed ;  and  yet  the  Strait  of 
Canseau  is  deserving  of  more  than  passing  notice.  The 
voyager  of  the  present  day  passes  through  a  narrow 
arm  of  the  sea,  about  fifteen  miles  of  which  is  only 
some  two  miles  in  width,  and  on  either  side  are  little 
villages  and  hamlets,  rustic  bridges  spanning  moun- 
tain brooks,  and  here  and  there  a  wooded  steep  or 


8o 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


placid  lake.  Tlicn  the  primeval  forest  reached  the 
water's  edge  ;  the  moose  and  caribou  fed  on  its  banks, 
and  nought  told  of  civilization,  save  an  occasional 
fishing  village,  with  its  garrisoned  block-house.  Of 
course  these  last  were  avoided  by  the  little  flotilla. 

Again  they  entered  the  open  sea,  and  for  several 
days  and  nights  voyaged  past  the  iron-bound  coast  of 
Acadia ;  now  sailing  with  favoring  breezes,  again 
trusting  to  oar  and  paddle ;  resting  at  night  on  the 
shore  of  some  little  cove,  with  their  canoes  drawn  up 
by  their  camp  fires,  which  grew  dull  and  flared  wild- 
ly by  turns,  as  the  night  breezes  stirred  the  leaves  of 
the  whispering  firs  above  them. 

At  times,  too,  a  sail  would  gleam  into  view,  far  out 
to  seaward  ;  and  once  they  narrowly  escaped  capture, 
by  a  provincial  galley,  by  taking  refuge  in  a  tortuous 
channel,  where  the  boats  of  the  galley  dared  aot  face 
the  rifles  of  the  ambushed  warriors. 

They  landed,  however,  pitched  their  camps,  and  for 
weeks  hunted  and  fished  in  the  surrounding  forests 
and  waters,  while  their  scouts  on  the  headland,  for 
leagues  up  and  down  the  coast,  watched  unceasingly 
for  the  sails  of  D'Anville,  who  still  came  not.  Once, 
indeed,  one  of  these  scouts  discovered  a  small  fleet 
bearing  the  French  flag,  and  great  rejoicing  filled  the 
little  encampment ;  but  Durel,  on  communicating  with 
its  commander,  M.  Conflans,  found  that  he  had  sailed, 
over  two  months  before,  with  the  fleet  from  France,  but 
had  been  detached  to  convoy  a  fleet  to  Jamaica,  with 
orders  to  sail  from  thence  to  Nova  Scotia,  and  cruise 
up  and  down  the  coast  three  weeks.  If  he  heard 
nothing  from  the  main  fleet  in  that  time,  he  was  to 


THE    COUNCIL. 


Si 


return  to  France.  "  Half  the  prescribed  time,"  he 
added,  "  had  ah'eady  chipsed,  and  on  its  completion 
he  should  of  course  return  home."  This  news,  and 
the  final  departure  of  the  squadron,  discouraged  De 
Ramsay,  who,  shortly  after,  set  out  on  his  return  to 
Canada. 

Du  Thct  resolved  to  imitate  his  example,  and  return 
to  St.  Jean  ;  but  at  last  a  scout  brought  intelligence  of  the 
approach  of  several  large  vessels.  Admiral  D'Anville, 
in  the  Renomme,  with  three  large  transports,  sailed 
into  the  harbor,  and  cast  anchor,  just  after  sunrise,  fol- 
lowed, later  in  the  day,  by  Vice-Admiral  Destournelle 
with  four  ships  of  the  line.  The  rest  of  the  fleet  of 
seventy  sail  were  so  scattered  by  contrary  winds,  and 
disabled  by  heavy  gales,  that  scarce  a  third  of  the 
original  force  ever  reached  the  haven  of  Chebucto. 


1li 


82 


i 


CHAPTER  XI. 


.|il{:;,Hir 


IIP'! 


li 


Jli 


li;ii:';;? 


»'iii:| 


CHEBUCTO. 

DISAPPOINTMENT  had  met  the  admiral  at  every 
turn,  from  the  day  when  his  proud  squadrons 
ghded  past  the  shores  of  sunny  France,  until  the  rem- 
nant of  the  ill-fated  armada  rested  in  the  sheltered 
waters  of  Chebucto. 

Terrible  storms  had  sunk  some  of  his  ships,  and 
forced  others  to  return  to  France  ;  head  winds  had  pro- 
longed the  ^^oyage  to  three  times  its  usual  duration ; 
disease  had  claimed  as  its  victims  over  a  thousand 
brave  soldiers  rind  skilful  mariners.  And  so  it  was 
with  joy  that  he  viewed  the  placid  harbor,  girt  by 
wooded  heights,  around  whose  skirts  rose  the  curling 
smoke  from  the  myriad  lodges  of  the  Abenaqui,  who 
had  gathered  there  from  all  the  adjacent  territories. 

But  scarcely  was  his  ship  securely  moored  ere  she 
was  boarded  bv  Du  Thet,  who  informed  him  of  the 
sailing  of  M.  Conflans  for  Europe,  and  the  homeward 
march  of  De  Ramsay  and  his  Canadian  rangers ;  but 
he  was  informed  by  Du  Thet  that  these  last  would 
probably  be  overtaken  and  brought  back  by  swift  run- 
ners, who,  on  the  arrival  of  ilie  fleet,  had  been  immcdi- 
idely  despatched  to  recall  them. 

This  last  blow,  however,  was  too  much  for  the  spirit 
of  the  veteran,  who  died  broken-hearted  on  the  fourth 


('?':■    f 


CHEBUCTO. 


83 


day  after  his  arrival,  leaving  the  command  of  the  fleet 
to  Vice-Admiral  Destournclle. 

His  first  act  was  to  land  the  troops  and  to  appoint  a 
commissary  to  procure  supplies  of  fresh  provisions 
from  the  Acadians  of  Chignecto,  Minas  Annapolis, 
and  Horton.  For  this  office  he  selected  Du  Thet ;  and 
it  was  on  his  return  from  these  districts  that  the  follow- 
ing conversation  took  place.  The  rear  guard  of  Ram- 
say's force,  some  four  hundred  in  number,  had  returned 
with  him  ;  but  the  light-armed  savages  and  woodsmen 
had  proceeded  homewards  too  rapidly  to  be  overtaken. 

"  Have  you  made  satisfactory  arrangements  for  fur- 
tr.er  supplies  after  these  are  exhausted  ?  "  said  Destour- 
nclle. 

"  I  have,  your  excellency,  but  have  judged  it  best  to 
limit  the  quantity  to  be  sent  here  across  the  peninsula 
until  further  orders.  Is  it  the  intention  of  your  excel- 
lency shortly  to  take  Annapolis?" 

"  That  question  is  to  be  decided  to-morrow.  La 
Jonquicre  here  and  myself  are  in  favor  of  it,  but  some 
of  our  officers  counsel  a  return  to  France." 

"  I  beg  that  you  will  not  leave  any  means  untried  to 
prevent  such  a  disastrous  decision,  as  it  will  entirely 
destroy  our  influence  with  our  Indian  allies.  Lead 
your  troops  once  at  least  to  the  attack,  and  sweep  the 
English  from  the  peninsula." 

"I  think  as  you  do,  and  will  do  all  that  I  can,  but 
the  minds  of  our  forces  are  weighed  down  by  our  many 
misfortunes,  and  all  foretell  disaster  to  our  whole  pro- 
ject. Even  my  own  mind  is  so  shaken  by  misfortune, 
that  a  dream  of  ill  omen  has  haunted  me  for  weeks 
past ; "  and  the  stout  soldier  paled  at  the  recollection. 
6 


I 


i ,; 


■Ml 


m 


llii 


ii  ii 


I    ' 


liiiiiil 


I'ilr 


84 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


"  I,  too,"  said  Dii  Thet,  "  have  felt  thus,  and  fear 
sometimes  not  only  for  the  present  enterprise,  but  even 
for  our  national  existence  on  this  continent ; "  and  as 
the  shades  gathered  he  detailed  to  the  two  officers  the 
strange  prophecy  of  Mambertou,  and  the  vision  of  the 
Indian  sibyl,  her  description  of  the  tempest-driven 
fleet,  the. quiet  harbor,  the  pestilence,  and  the  violent 
death  of  the  commander. 

"  But,"  said  Destournelle,  "  the  admiral  died  in  his 
berth,  and  the  warriors  of  the  forest  are  untouched  by 
the  fever." 

''  How  do  you  read  the  legend  regarding  the  issue 
of  the  present  struggle  between  the  two  nations,"  in- 
quired La  Jonquiere. 

"  As  an  intimation  that  we  must  change  our  policy, 
from  a  military  colonization  to  a  civil  one,  replacing 
the  pensioners  and  royal  favorites,  who  now  fill  all  the 
civil  offices,  by  men  from  among  the  colonists  them- 
selves, as  well  as  depending  for  defence  on  a  local 
militia,  who  fight  for  their  homes,  rather  than  on  mer- 
cenary bayonets  and  fickle  savages." 

La  Jonquiere  had  listened  in  ill-concealed  impatience 
to  the  last  remark  of  the  missionary,  and  sr.id  at  his 
close,  "  Such  a  procedure  would  be  a  radical  change 
of  the  policy  which  has  made  France  until  now  the 
dominant  power  in  this  continent ;  and  if  we  are  to  be 
guided  or  influenced  by  dreams  and  omens,  let  us  take 
a  sensible  explanation  of  the  prophecy,  as,  for  instance, 
that  the  successful  power  will  use  a  brave  and  disci- 
plined army  on  the  ofiensive,  while  its  colonists  con- 
struct abatis  and  throw  up  fortifications.     Good  even- 


iiiii 


ill--.. 


I 


CHEBUCTO. 


85 


ing,  Monsieur  Commissaire  :  you  will  attend  us  to-mor- 
row, after  the  council  has  decided  our  future  course." 

Du  Thet  retired,  and  after  reaching  his  camp  sat  hy 
the  smouldering  embers  of  the  fire,  in  front  of  the  lodge, 
until  late  at  night,  thinking  of  the  past  and  dreading  the 
future.     Below  him  he  saw  line  upon  line  of  lodges, 
some  lit  up  by  the  camp  fires  before  them,  and  others 
a  darker  shadow  on  the  shades  of  night.    Lower  down 
he  saw  the  white  tents  of  the  French,  whose  snowy 
angles  brought  to  mind  the  ice-packs,  of  the  frozen 
straits ;  in  front  of  them  stretched  the  shadowed  waters 
of  the  harbor,  and  glimmered  the  lights  of  the  war-ships. 
iVnd  as  he  sat  there,  he  thought  of  the  scores  who 
lay  tossing  in  sickness,  under  the  canvas  of  the  huge 
hospital  tents,  and  he  called  to  mind  the  scenes  he  had 
witnessed  that  day  in  visiting  the  sick  and  giving  con- 
solation to  the  dying.     He  remembered  the  sad  faces 
and  weary  eyes  of  the  surgeons,  as  fresh  cases  occurred 
hourly,  and  the  fears  expressed  by  them  lest  the  con- 
tagion should  spread  to  their  allies  ;  and  as  the  cold  air 
of  night  condensed  in  icy  dews  upon  his  brow,  he  re- 
called the  vision  of  the  forest  maiden,  almost  fearing 
k'st  he  should  see  above  him  the  huge  and  dusky  pin- 
ions of  the  destroyer ;  and  after  his  devotions,  wearily 
sought  his  couch. 

The  next  day  he  saw  the  barges  of  the  officers  as 
they,  sped  to  the  admiral's  vessel  on  their  way  to  the 
council,  then  went  to  the  hospitals  to  help  the  over- 
tasked surgeons,  and  after  several  hours  had  passed  in 
this  employment,  was  suddenly  called  by  a  messen- 
ger from  Destournelle,  who  was  awaiting  him  at  the 
landing. 


I 


86 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


On  arriving  he  was  informed  that  the  council  had 
determined  to  retake  Annapolis  before  returning,  but 
to  wait  where  they  were  until  the  epidemic  abated. 
In  vain  he  urged  the  folly  and  danger  of  further  stay 
at  a  place  so  isolated  as  to  be  useless  as  a  military  po- 
sition, so  far  from  the  base  of  supplies,  and  so  distant 
from  any  objective  point  of  attack. 

"  My  officers  have  decided,  and  I  must  not  and  dare 
not  take  upon  myself  the  responsibility  of  disregarding 
their  advice  altogether.  You  will  at  once  set  off  to 
procure  more  supplies.  You  will  take  such  guard  as 
you  think  proper,  but  will  start  to-night." 

And  so  Du  Thet  commended  his  proteges^  the  or- 
phans of  De  Courcy,  to  the  care  of  Wuspem  and  Ula- 
lie,  and  bespoke  the  careful  attendance  of  a  surgeon, 
if  they  should  require  it,  the  filling  his  pouch  with 
venison  and  coarse  bread,  shouldered  his  carbine,  and 
with  L'Our  Blanc  and  half  a  score  of  warriors  set  out 
for  the  Acadian  settlements. 

Three  hours  after,  De  Ramsay,  at  the  head  of  his  four 
hundred  regulars,  followed  him  with  orders  to  besiege 
Annapolis,  and  with  instructions  to  Du  Thet  to  act  as 
commissary  to  both  parties ;  and  so  it  was  that  three 
weeks  had  nearly  elapsed  before  he  knew  that  the 
races  of  the  Abenaqui  had  melted  like  snow  before 
the  hot  breath  of  the  destroying  angel. 

He  had  gone  down  with  his  body-guard  to  convey 
provisions  to  the  assailants  of  Annapolis,  for  De  Ram- 
say, tired  of  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  fleet,  had  laid 
siege  to  the  place,  and  with  his  trusty  lieutenants,  Le 
Corne  and  Couton,  had  driven  the  settlers   to  their 


111 

Miiilill 


CHEBUCTO. 


87 


block-houses,  and  skii*mished  with  their  riflemen,  draw- 
ing nearer  each  day  to  the  town. 

As  he  stood  talking  with  Dc  Ramsay  and  his  of- 
ficers, and  congratulating  them  on  their  success  thus 
far,  a  warrior  sprang  from  the  woods  and  came  swiftly 
towards  them.  He  appeared  worn  with  fatigue  and 
sorrow,  and  the  vermilion  was  lacking  from  his  war- 
paint ;  but  they  knew  long  before  he  stood  among  them 
that  he  was  Loup  Cervier.  Just  as  he  reached  the  lit- 
tle group  he  staggered,  and  would  have  fallen,  but  was 
caught  .in  the  arms  of  Du  Thet,  whose  quick  eye  de- 
tected the  ravages  of  fever.  "  I  have  come,  O  chief,'* 
said  he,  feebly,  "  as  the  bearer  of  heavy  tidings." 
The  scourge  of  the  French  became  the  destruction  of 
the  Illenoo  ;  warriors  and  women  alike  fall  before  it ; 
the  wigwam  of  L'Our  Blanc  is  deserted,  for  the  blasts 
of  Death  have  dried  up  the  life-springs  of  the  Summer- 
Lake,  and  Ulalie  has  fled,  with  the  children  of  the  dead 
captain,  to  the  lodge  of  the  Sea  Gull.  The  camps  of 
the  French  are  deserted,  and  the  Abenaqui  are  seek- 
ing their  homes  over  ocean  and  war-path,  and  none  of 
them  r.re  left  by  the  waters  of  Chebucto  save  the  war- 
riors of  St.  John,  and  the  sleepers  who  awaken  no 
more.  I  came  here  to  hasten  the  return  of  the  chief 
to  his  braves,  and  to  bring  to  the  Black  Robe  this 
package  from  the  grep''  >;hief  of  the  French,  but  the 
fever  attacked  me  o.  ^.le  way,  and  I  must  sleep  far 
from  my  kindred." 

At  that  moment  a  few  rifle-shots  were  heard  in  the 
direction  of  the  city,  and  seemed  to  give  new  life  to  the 
dying  warrior,  for,  rising,  he  said,  "  Many  braves  have 
died  the  death  of  women,  but  the  Wild  Cat  may  not 


v^r 


88 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


j  jijj  iijiii 


i|!!l!' 


iliiiNill 


die   thus.     Once   more  he  shall  cry  the  war-whoop, 
once  more  bury  his  teeth  in  the  flesh  of  the  foe." 

Hastily  he  replaced  the  black  hues  of  his  mourning 
with  the  vivid  colors  of  battle,  and  seizing  his  rifle, 
sprang  lightly  away  in  the  direction  of  the  firing,  which 
sounded  nearer.  The  spectators  of  his  unnatural 
strength  attempted  in  vain  to  overtake  him,  and 
learned  from  a  soldier  that  a  small  party  of  the  be- 
sieged had  sallied  out,  and  were  now  firing  sharply 
at  the  French  outposts.  Hastening  on,  they  were  sud- 
denly fired  upon,  and  immediately  sought  cover,  and 
from  thence  watched  the  movements  of  Loup  Ccrvicr, 
who  was  rapidly,  yet  cautiously,  nearing  the  English 
riflemen.  Gliding  noiselessly  through  every  thicket, 
and  behind  every  bush  and  hillock,  he  at  last  gained  a 
position  some  twenty  yards  from  a  party  of  four,  who 
were  sheltered  by  a  log.  Loup  Cervier  raised  his 
plumed  headdress  above  the  mound  behind  which  he 
lay  ;  it  was  instantly  riddled  with  bullets.  Springing 
to  his  feet,  he  rushed  on  the  surprised  rangers,  pealing 
out  the  terrible  war-whoop,  as  a  soldier  fell  at  the 
crack  of  his  deadly  musket.  A  second  fell  beneath  his 
hatchet ;  but  a  dozen  jets  of  fire  shot  from  the  ambushed 
riflemen  in  front  and  on  either  side,  and  the  Wild  Cat 
died  as  he  had  lived,  an  unrelenting  foe  of  the  heretic 
to  the  last. 

A  volley  from  the  French,  followed  by  a  charge 
headed  by  L'Our  Blanc,  amply  avenged  the  fallen  war- 
rior, and  drove  the  English  to  their  block-houses  ;  after 
which  Du  Thet  hastened  with  De  Ramsav  to  learn  the 
tidings  conveyed  him  in  the  packet  brought  by  the 
dead  warrior. 


I^J    -T 


•■.'.-f,. 


CIIEBUCTO. 


89 


It  was  opened  hastily,  and  found  to  contain  several 
missives.  The  first  in  date  was  from  Destournelle, 
who  informed  him  that  the  fever  had  spread  among 
the  Indians,  and  was  raging  with  terrible  fury.  "  Hun- 
dreds die  daily,  and  it  spares  neither  age  nor  sex. 
The  wife  of  your  friend,  the  White  Bear,  was  one  of 
its  first  victims ;  and  your  proteges  and  their  Indian 
nurse  have  taken  refuge  with  that  strange  half  savage 
Durel,  who  lives  on  one  of  the  little  islands  in  the 
harbor.  We  have  at  last  decided  to  attack  Annapolis, 
and  you  will  accordingly  prepare  for  our  arrival  im- 
mediately." 

The  next  was  an  order  to  De  Ramsay  to  lay  siege  to 
Annapolis,  if  he  had  not  already  done  so.  Like  the 
other,  it  was  signed  by  Destournelle.  The  third,  dated 
several  days  later,  read  thus :  — 


"  Monsieur  Du  Thet  :  It  is  with  a  heavy  heart 
that  I  pen  these  lines  to  inform  you  of  the  utter  failure 
of  our  expedition,  and  the  death  of  Admiral  Destour- 
nelle. Shortly  after  your  departure,  we  determined 
to  sail  for  Annapolis,  and  did  so  ;  but  our  allies  were 
so  much  demoralized  by  the  deaths  which  occurred 
hourly  among  them,  that  they  received  no  orders  to 
cooperate  with  us.  The  fleet  sailed  at  the  time  ap- 
pointed, but  our  voyage  was  cut  short  by  heavy 
storms,  which  so  shattered  our  vessels  and  discour- 
aged our  men  that  we  were  forced  to  return  ;  and  the 
admiral,  worn  out  by  anxiety  and  forebodings  of 
evil,  ran  himself  through  the  body  with  his  sword. 
On  returning  here,  we  determined  to  sail  for  France, 
as  we  have  learned  from  some  captured  despatches 


iiii 


1 


11 


8{i  I 


iilillii 


90 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


that  a  large  and  formidable  English  fleet  will  soon  be 
upon  the  coast,  and  we  cannot  cope  with  it  in  our 
present  condition.  Vessels  have  been  despatched  to 
carry  the  survivors  of  the  Abenaqui  to  their  homes. 
You  will  pay  all  sums  due  for  our  supplies  and  your 
expenses,  and,  if  you  have  not  enough,  will  give  bills 
for  the  same.  You  will  receive  funds  to  pay  these 
from  Quebec. 

I  remain,  Monsieur, 

Yours,  &c., 

La  Jonquiere." 

Du  Thet  ceased  reading,  and  looked  around  him. 
The  White  Bear  sat  stern  and  calm,  breathing  no 
sigh,  with  no  moisture  in  his  eyes ;  and  yet  it  was 
easy  to  see  that  his  heart  was  filled  with  the  sorrow 
that  ends  only  with  life.  De  Ramsay  and  his  lieuten- 
ants seemed  almost  stunned  by  the  tidings ;  but  at 
last  the  knight  spoke :  "  From  the  first  our  projects 
have  failed.  Can  it  be  that  Heaven  itself  is  against  us? 
Our  greatest  armada  has  accomplished  nothing,  and 
the  power  of  our  allies  is  broken  forever ;  but  courage, 
comrades !  Another  spring  will  bring  another  navy, 
and  until  then  we  will  encamp  by  the  fatal  shores  of 
the  harbor  of  Chebucto.  Call  in  the  pickets  to-mor- 
row morning,  Le  Corne,  and  see  to-night  that  all  are 
ready  to  start  with  the  first  light." 

When  the  defenders  of  the  English  settlement  awoke 
the  next  morning,  they  found  that  the  foe  had  departed, 
and  that  French  musketeers  and  Indian  bowmen  were 
winding  through  the  narrow  paths  of  the  forests,  leav- 
ing behind  them  the  broad  river,  the  little  town,  the 


CHEBUCTO. 


91 


ancient  burial-place  of  the  Abenaqui,  and  the  fresh 
graves  of  their  comrades. 

Several  days  of  rough  marching  brought  them  to 
the  spot  where  they  had  left  the  white  camps  of  the 
French  infantry  and  the  lodges  of  the  Abenaqui ; 
many  of  the  latter  were  still  standing,  but  without 
tenants,  save  in  some  cases  where  the  fears  or  weak- 
ness of  their  former  occupants  had  forbidden  the  usual 
rites  of  sepulture.  Side  by  side  with  the  camps,  a  few 
weeks  ago  swarming  with  life  and  masses  of  armed 
men,  lay  the  city  of  the  dead,  —  the  simple  cross  which 
marked  the  grave  of  some  brave  Frenchman  rising 
next  to  the  war-spear,  which,  upholding  the  medicine- 
bag  of  some  war-chief,  was  the  last  sad  memento  of 
his  deeds,  as  well  as  the  inscription  which  distinguished 
his  last  resting-place  from  the  hundreds  around  it. 
And  as  they  passed,  L'Our  Blanc  pointed  out  to  his 
companions  the  graves  of  those  famous  among  his 
race,  —  chiefs  who  bore  the  names  of  Moose,  Bear, 
Panther,  Stag,  Hawk,  Eagle,  and  Sea  Gull,  which, 
strange  and  uncouth  as  they  may  seem  to  us,  were 
never  given  unless  well  deserved,  and  therefore  were 
indeed  titles  of  honor.  For  had  not  he,  surnamed  the 
Fox,  baffled  for  days  the  keen  scouts  of  the  Kennebec? 
Had  not  the  Wolf  earned  his  title  by  his  unwearied 
pursuit  and  destruction  of  a  small  band  of  seal-fed 
Esquimaux ;  the  Moose  carried  terror  into  peaceful 
settlements  by  his  swift  passage  from  one  point  of  at- 
tack to  another,  and  the  Sea  Gull  hovered  about  the 
sea-coast,  as  the  bird  whose  name  he  had  assumed 
hovers  over  the  breaking  surges  to  prey  upon  the  finny 
tribes  of  ocean  ? 


•]  '■■' 


,mi,i,i,r 


H  11 


92 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


Around  them  lay  arms,  peltries,  and  ornaments  left 
by  the  departing  survivors,  while  on  the  shores  were 
canoes  innumerable.  In  the  harbor,  where  last  they 
had  seen  the  fleet  with  its  huge  war-ships  and  con- 
stantly passing  barges,  the  only  vessels  visible  were 
those  burned  and  scuttled  by  the  departing  admiral,  and 
the  little  shallop  of  Durel,  which  was  anchored  near 
one  of  the  islands  of  the  haven.  Du  Thet  and  L'Our 
Blanc  sprang  into  a  canoe  and  sought  the  island,  on 
which  they  saw  the  red  bark  and  blue  smoke  of  sev- 
eral lodges.  On  reaching  it  they  were  met  by  Durcl 
and  the  remnant  of  the  Indians  of  St.  John,  scarce  fifty 
in  number,  less  than  a  third  of  those  who  had  but  a 
few  months  before  set  out  joyously,  to  seek,  as  they 
hoped,  riches,  fame,  and  the  expulsion  of  the  heretic 
from  their  father-land,  to  find,  as  it  proved,  unexam- 
pled misfortune  and  defeat. 

Many  years  elapsed  before  the  English  flag  floated 
triumphantly  over  the  fortalices  of  Montreal  and  Qiic- 
bec,  and  often  the  warriors  of  the  Abenaqui  joined 
battle  with  the  defenders  of  the  red-cross  flag ;  but  the 
power  and  consequence  of  their  race  met  with  a  fatal 
and  irremediable  blow  when  its  bravest  and  best  died, 
like  plague-stricken  cattle,  by  the  silent  waters  of 
Chebucto.  A  few  days  after  the  chief  took  leave  of 
his  tribe,  who  had  determined  to  return  to  the  Isle  of 
St.  John,  or,  at  least,  as  far  as  Cape  Breton,  and  who, 
accordingly,  in  company  with  Durel,  set  out  on  the 
return  voyage,  which  they  accomplished  in  safety. 

L'Our  Blanc  and  Ulalie,  with  Du  Thet,  set  out 
across  the  peninsula  to  Chebucto,  where  the  mission- 
ary had  determined  to  settle  for  the  purpose  of  annoy- 


CMEBUCTO. 


93 


ing  the  English,  and,  if  possible,  of  driving  them  from 
the  country.  Here  for  many  years  he  lived,  a  man  of 
mystery,  loved  by  few,  respected  by  the  French  Neu- 
trals,* and  feared  and  hated  by  the  English. 

L'Our  Blanc  would  not  live  with  him,  but  had  a 
lodge  near  a  small  lake  in  the  neighborhood,  which 
he  occupied  when  not  employed  in  scouting  expedi- 
tions or  forays  on  the  English  settlements  ;  for  in  the 
years  that  intervened  between  the  fall  of  1749  and 
1759,  the  Jesuit,  at  times,  wore  sword  and  pistols  for 
months,  and  wrote  of  successful  plots  or  political  intel- 
ligence, far  oftener  than  he  conned  his  Breviary  or 
performed  mass.  Our  next  chapter  will  be  devoted  to 
the  story  of  his  first  exploit  in  the  peninsula  of  Acadia. 

♦  The  French  of  Nova  Scotia  were  so  termed  by  the  English. 


MilB 


94 


CHAPTER  XII. 


CHIGNECTO. 


FAR  to  the  westward  of  the  Bay  of  Minas,  in  the 
district  of  Chignecto,  Du  Thet  had  chosen  his 
home,  and  with  little  difficulty  purchased  it  from  the 
occupant,  whose  love  of  adventure  led  him  eagerly  to 
accept  the  liberal  terms  otitied  by  the  missionary  for 
the  small  cottage,  which  he  was  quite  glad  to  ex- 
change for  the  lodge  of  the  wood-ranger. 

It  contained  but  one  large  room  ;  but  by  the  priest's 
direction  an  upper  room  was  added  by  a  light,  strong 
ceiling,  and  the  ground  floor  divided  by  partitions 
into  three  compartments.  In  the  kitchen,  or  outer 
room,  was  a  large  fireplace,  a  table,  and  several  chairs ; 
on  the  wall  hung  muskets,  fishing-tackle,  a  saddle 
and  bridle,  a  pair  of  snow-shoes,  and  several  other 
articles  of  daily  use.  One  of  the  interior  rooms  was 
allotted  to  the  twins  and  their  nurse ;  the  other  was, 
of  course,  that  of  Du  Thet. 

Around  the  house  were  several  fruit  trees,  and  a 
small  copse  surrounded  it  on  three  sides,  —  shutting  off 
the  force  of  the  winds  in  winter,  and  affording  a  cool 
shade  in*  summer.  A  small  stream  ran  near  the 
house,  and  joined  the  river  some  hundreds  of  yards 
below  the  road. 

The  neighbors  were  few,  the  nearest  half  a   mile 


CHIGNECTO. 

away ;  but  the  district,  though  not  closely,  was  very 
generally  settled,  and  a  hundred  armed  men  could  be 
collected  at  a  day's  notice.  They  were  all  Frenchmen, 
who  had  been,  by  an  arbitrary  treaty,  transferred  to 
the  rule  of  a  sovereign  against  whom  they  had  often 
fought,  whose  religion  they  hated,  whose  sincerity  they 
doubted:  good  listeners  to  anything  which  savored 
of  French  rights,  good  subjects  for  the  incendiary 
attempts  of  Du  Thet,  good  instruments  in  his  hands, 
as  the  sequel  showed  too  well. 

The  coming  of  the  great  fleet  of  invasion,  whose 
total  want  of  success  has  been  chronicled  in  the  last 
chapter,  had  not  been  unnoted  or  unfeared  by  the 
then  English  colonies,  the  conquest  and  wasting  of 
which  had  been  the  main  object  of  the  enterprise. 
Active  preparations  were  made ;  forces  levied ;  forts 
strengthened,  and  their  armaments  increased  ;  the  mili- 
tia inspected  and  exercised  ;  while  the  ministers  exhort- 
ed their  hearers  to  humble  themselves,  that  the  danger 
might  pass  away,  and  prayed  that  the  wrath  of  the  Lord 
might  be  averted  from  his  people,  that  the  children  of 
the  Babylonish  woman  might  not  prevail.  As  was 
to  have  been  expected,  the  news  of  the  strange  series 
of  misfortunes  by  sea  and  land,  which  had  exhausted 
the  strength  and  destroyed  the  forces  of  the  French, 
filled  the  colonists  with  the  joy  which  follows  that 
suspense  which  accompanies  imminent  and  total  ruin. 
The  land  was  filled  with  mirth  and  exultation,  and 
the  churches  rang  with  sermons  of  joy  and  thanksgiv- 
ing to  Him  who  had  thus,  as  of  old,  overwhelmed 
the  persecutors  of  his  people  in  the  depths  of  ocean, 
and  smitten  the  hosts  of  the  French  by  the  hand  of  the 


Ik':    ■'  : 


96 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


destroying  angel.  But  still  the  wise  rulers  of  the 
eastern  colonies  knew  that  another  spring  would 
probably  bring  with  it  new  perils,  and  it  was  decided 
to  send  forces  to  Nova  Scotia  forthwith ;  and  three 
vessels  set  sail  with  the  contingents  of  Massachusetts, 
Rhode  Island,  ^nd  Connecticut.  But  the  winter  had 
set  in.  They  found  the  Bay  of  Fundy  filled  with  ice ; 
and  at  last  two  of  the  vessels  put  about ;  but  the  third, 
with  the  Massachusetts  forces  on  board,  held  her  way 
up  the  shore  until  she  could  go  no  farther.  So  the 
knapsacks  were  packed,  the  haversacks  filled,  ball 
cartridges  distributed,  and  sleds  loaded  with  food ;  and 
Colonel  Noble,  with  his  little  band  of  four  hundred 
and  seventy  men,  commenced  their  march  to  that 
destination,  made  immortal  by  the  pen  of  Longfellow 
—  the  village  of  Grand  Pre.  For  eight  days  they 
marched  through  narrow  wood-paths  and  over  al- 
most impassable  roads,  sleeping,  after  their  fatigues, 
on  heaps  of  hemlock  branches,  before  huge  fires,  ere 
they  reached  their  journey's  end,  where  another  dis- 
comfort awaited  them.  The  commander  found  no 
building  capable  of  holding  so  many,  and  he  was 
forced  to  billet  them  among  the  inhabitants,  until  at 
last  they  were  barracked  in  two  or  three  buildings, 
unhappily  too  far  apart  to  furnish  prompt  and  mu- 
tual support  in  case  of  sudden  attack. 

But  this  troubled  them  little ;  for  they  found  the 
habitants  pleasant  enough,  and  ready  to  supply  food 
at  moderate  prices.  The  maids  of  the  village  laughed 
and  coquetted  with  the  men  as  they  passed  by,  and  at 
the  end  of  a  week  the  officers  of  the  contingent  said 
among  themselves,   that  a  week  of  severe  weather 


>  in 


CHIGNECTO. 


97 


would  make  them  safe  from  attack,  and  insure  them 
a  pleasant  season  of  winter  garrison  duty. 

Certainly  they  had  no  reason  to  complain  for  want 
of  cold  weather ;  for  the  bays  and  rivers  were  all  more 
or  less  covered  with  ice,  and  the  trees  of  the  forest 
were  rent  by  the  frost,  while  it  had  become  impossible 
for  the  sentinels  to  do  duty  out  of  doors  for  nearly  a 
week.  So  the  men  smoked,  told  stories,  cleaned  their 
arms  and  accoutrements,  or  played  at  various  games 
of  chance  and  skill ;  while  their  officers  sat  over  their 
wine,  or  chatted  with  the  wife  and  daughters  of  their 
host :  both,  however,  dreamed  not  that  a  band  of  de- 
termined men  were  gathering  far  to  the  northward, 
to  expel  them  from  their  comfortable  quarters,  and  to 
destroy  one  half  of  their  number. 

It  was  late  in  the  month  of  December  that  Du  Thet 
learned  from  a  messenger,  sent  by  a  farmer  of  Minas, 
that  a  detachment  of  troops  had  been  stationed  among 
them  for  the  winter,  as  well  as  their  number,  the 
houses  they  occupied,  and  many  other  facts  of  like 
nature.  As  he  sat  alone  in  his  room  that  evening, 
he  thought  over  the  forces  at  his  command,  and  his 
prospects  of  success.  .       v.    . 

"  I  have  here,"  said  he,  "  a  small  band  of  Micmacs, 
whom  L'Our  Blanc  will  easily  persuade  to  take  part 
in  the  expedition.  De  Ramsay  is  at  Chebucto,  in 
winter  quarters,  and  it  will  consume  too  much  time 
if  we  attempt  to  summon  him.  From  this  district 
some  four  or  five  hundred  will  join,  which,  with 
the  Indians,  will  give  us  about  six  hundred  men. 
Now,  if  we  can  march  over  the  forty  leagues  that 


■  ■i,!.'.: 


98 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


intervene  between  us  and  Grand  Prd,  without  being 
suspected,  we  can  certainly  conquer." 

Next  day,  L'Our  Blanc  donned  his  war  gear, 
painted  his  face,  and  visited  the  lodges  of  all  the 
Micmacs  in  the  neighborhood  ;  and  at  the  same  time 
sent  messengers  to  camps  many  leagues  away,  sum- 
moning every  warrior  who  could  take  the  war-path  to 
meet  him  in  twice  seven  days,  with  rifle,  bow,  knife, 
and  hatchet,  racket  and  venison,  at  the  central  chapel 
of  the  district  of  Chignecto,  thence  to  march  against 
the  common  enemy. 

Du  Thet  drove  rapidly  from  house  to  house,  from 
hamlet  to  hamlet,  urging  upon  notary  and  land- 
lord, hunter  and  trapper,  yeoman  and  artisan,  the 
duties  of  the  hour ;  and  not  in  vain.  For  the  trader 
gave  of  his  stores  of  lead  and  powder,  the  trapper  of 
his  pemmican  and  dried  venison,  the  farmer  from 
his  well-filled  granaries ;  while  the  priest  spoke  in  the 
pulpit  of  the  hopes  of  the  church,  and  the  glories  of 
martyrdom  ;  the  landlord  brought  forth  his  strong  ale 
and  choicest  aqua  vitce  for  the  departing  warriors. 
From  lodge  of  bark  and  house  of  logs,  winter's  camp 
and  rural  hamlet,  gathered  plumed  warriors  and 
coarsely-clad  hunters,  with  weapons  and  food,  hasten- 
ing to  the  rendezvous  at  the  chapel  of  St.  Marie. 

As  they  stood  there  in  the  early  morning,  surrounded 
by  sad  but  admiring  friends,  Du  Thet  appeared  clad 
in  his  serge  robe,  accompanied  by  the  priest  of  the 
village,  and  entered  the  church,  motioning  to  all  to 
follow  ;  and  Father  Augustine,  with  trembling  voice, 
went  through  the  mass,  and  administered  the  sacra- 
ment to  each  of  the  band.    Then  rose  the  voices  of  the 


Fa 
tlia 


CHIGNECTO. 


99 


inded 

d  clad 

of  the 

all  to 

voice, 

sacra- 

5  of  the 


choir,  and  the  exultant  strains  of  the  second  Psalm 
gave  new  courage  to  the  simple  people,  who  doubted 
not  that  they  went  forth  to  battle  against  the  "  heathen  " 
of  modern  times — contemners  of  truth  and  religion, 
and  mockers  of  God.  As  it  ceased,  Du  Thet  entered 
the  pulpit  and  harangued  his  followers,  exhorting  the 
French  to  fight  for  their  king,  their  religion,  and  their 
homes ;  the  savages  to  regain  their  fatherland,  and  to 
despoil  the  accursed  heretic  of  his  arms  and  treasures. 
He  concluded  thus  :  "  Your  father  in  Christ  has  told 
us  often  of  the  seasons  at  which  we  should  perform  the 
various  duties  of  life  ;  and  the  Scripture  saith  that  there 
is  a  time  to  mourn,  a  time  to  feast,  a  time  to  rejoice. 
I  tell  you  to-day  that  we  have  feasted  too  long  under 
the  yoke  of  the  foreign  lord,  rather  ihan  endure  priva- 
tion for  the  sake  of  dear  old  France ;  we  have  been 
content  to  mourn  past  glories  rather  than  to  attempt 
their  renewal :  and  the  season  for  these  has  gone  by. 
This  is  a  time  for  conflict,  for  battle,  and  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  oppressor  and  the  heretic.  Now  is  the 
season  of  your  trial ;  after  it,  cometh  the  time  of 
rejoicing  and  reward.  1  now  lay  aside  the  dress 
of  my  order,  and,  in  the  dress  and  with  the  weapons 
of  war,  will  abide  with  you  the  trial  of  battle.  Now, 
Father  Augustine,  give  us  your  blessing,  for  it  is  time 
that  we  were  already  en  router 

While  saying  these  words,  he  had  divested  himself 
of  his  robe,  and  stood  before  them  armed  with  rapier 
and  pistols,  and  clad  in  the  habiliments  of  an  officer  of 
infantry.  As  he  finished  speaking,  he  knelt  at  the  feet 
of  the  good  curk.  All  present  followed  his  example, 
listening  with  bowed  heads  to  the  benediction  ;  and  at 


lOO 


TWICE  TAKEN. 


its  close,  the  tall  form  of  Du  Thet  passed  down  the 
aisle,  followed  by  his  men,  who  marched  in  Indian  file 
through  the  weeping  assemblage,  past  the  log-houses 
of  the  little  settlement,  into  the  woods  that  skirt  the 

<        Bay  of  Minas  and  its  tributaries. 

■!*^  The   trees,  loaded  with  snow-flakes  and  glittering 

"^  icicles,  were  motionless ;  for  the  air  was  still,  clear, 
and  frosty.  Through  the  winding  paths  of  the  forest 
filed  the  plumed  and  fur-clad  Abenaqui,  followed  by 
the  hunters  of  Chignecto.  No  uniform  or  heavy 
trappings  were  there  to  impress  the  eye  of  the  be- 
holder ;  no  bayonets  to  present  a  spiky  wall  to  the 
assailant ;  no  field-piece  to  batter  defences,  or  howitzer 
to  sweep  down  scores  with  its  shower  of  fatal  mi- 
tratlle.  But  the  homespun  coats  covered  gallant 
hearts ;  the  keen  knife  and  light  tomahawk  hung  by 
each  manly  thigh  ;  the  sharp  axes,  carried  by  a  chosen 
few,  would  do  all  that  was  needed  in  forcing  the 
feeble  barriers  of  a  wooden  barrack ;  and  the  muskets 
and  rifles  of  all  present  rarely  spoke  in  vain.  All  knew 
these  things;  so  by  day  they  struggled  unweariedly 
through  the  drifts,  or  crossed  the  treacherous  surfaces 
of  half-frozen  rivers,  at  night  halting  in  some  wood 
of  snow-enwreathed  pines,  and,  laying  aside  their 
arms  and  packs,  prepared  their  resting-place  for  the 
night.  Soon  the  drifts  were  stamped  into  hard  floors, 
on  which  the  flat  twigs  of  the  fir,  spread  to  the  depth 
of  several  inches,  formed  a  comfortable  carpet,  while 
huge  fires  of  immense  logs  lit  up  the  sombre  pines, 
glittering  with  icy  gems,  the  wild  garbs  and  horrid 
war-paint  of  the  Abenaqui,  and  the  hardy  forms  of  the 
voyageurs^  as  they  ate  their  simple  meal,  or  smoked 
.     ■•    ■  ■  ■ '  ■  •■■„  ■•  ■  "''V; ;-  ■  , 


CHIGNECTO. 


lOI 


at  its  close ;  and  then,  wrapped  in  their  blankets,  the 
warriors  slept  to  dream  of  home,  of  friends,  of  vic- 
tory and  happiness  —  but  not  of  death. 

So  for  a  score  of  days  passed  the  time,  as  through 
tangled  thicket  and  drifted  wood-path,  over  craggy 
hill  and  dangerous  ice-floe,  the  little  army  slowly,  but 
surely,  approached  the  fated  garrison  of  Minas,  until 
the  night  of  the  31st  of  January  found  them  encamped,  | 
without  fire,  within  five  miles  of  the  village;  a  star-' 
less  sky  above,  a  fierce  wind  increasing  hourly  in  in- 
tensity, and  the  fine  snow-flakes  falling  thickly  around 
them.  Cold,  weary,  without  food,  or  even  a  fire  to 
warm  their  stiftening  joints,  they  awaited  the  hour 
of  action,  each  carefully  covering  with  coat  lap- 
pel,  or  blanket  fold,  the  lock  of  the  trusty  musket ; 
their  feet  tramping  the  drifts  into  compact  levels,  as 
they  moved  about,  in  the  vain  effort  to  keep  warm 
until  their  leaders  should  order  an  advance. 

In  the  village,  the  English  were  comfortably  quar- 
tered in  two  parties,  there  being  no  one  building  in 
the  village  capable  of  containing  their  whole  force. 
One  of  these,  commanded  by  Colonel  Noble,  occupied 
a  house  near  the  centre  of  the  village,  while  the  senior 
captain,  Morris,  held  one  nearer  the  woods  occupied 
by  the  French.  In  each  barrack  the  laughter  rose 
loudly  as  tales  of  warfare  and  merry  ballad  -whiled 
away  the  winter's  evening ;  and  as  it  grew  late,  and 
the  storm  increased  in  fury,  the  sentinels  were  called 
in,  and  only  those  in  the  halls  and  corridors  paced 
wearily,  with  heavy  muskets,  inwardly  cursing  their 
supposed  unnecessary  vigil.  Around  lay  their  broth- 
ers in  arms,  wrapped   in   their  heavy  blankets,   the 


* 

f" 


102 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


knapsack  pillowing  each  weary  head,  the  bright  mus- 
ket gleaming  in  its  rack  above  ;  and  they  slept  as  those 
only  sleep  who  eat  the  plain,  wholesome  food,  and 
lead  the  regular  life,  of  a  soldier  in  garrison. 

But  in  the  barrack  in  charge  of  Captain  Morris 
\  one  there  was  who  slept  not,  —  Sergeant  Hamlin,  a 
\  hale,  weather-beaten  son  of  Cape  Cod,  a  true  descend- 
ant of  the  pioneer  settlers  of  New  England,  and  a 
fearless  soldier.  He  had  fought  under  Pepperell  at 
Louisburg,  had  toiled  through  the  morasses  of  Cape 
Breton,  and  coolly  pulled  in  the  flotilla  of  whale-boats 
to  the  fatal  attack  on  the  terrible  "  Island  Battery,"  and 
had  always  been  noted  for  his  calmness  and  intre- 
pidity. But  on  this  night  he  tossed  uneasily  to  and 
fro ;  when  he  slept,  his  mind  seemed  troubled,  and 
broken  words  of  command  issued  from  his  lips,  until 
at  last  he  awoke  with  a  half-smothered  cry  that  *'  the 
French  were  upon  them.'* 

A  dozen  men  awoke ;  then,  swearing  at  the  in- 
terruption, turned  to  sleep  again,  while  the  sentinel 
spoke  to  the  sergeant,  and  asked  him  what  he  had 
dreamed. 

"O,  of  surprise  and  desperate  fight,  in  which  I 
saw  the  faces  of  our  officers  and  comrades  by  the 
light  of  blazing  houses.  It  is  all  nonsense,  no  doubt, 
but  I  can't  sleep  to-night."  Taking  from  his  pocket 
'  a  small  Bible,  he  essayed  to  read  by  the  light  of  a  lan- 
tern, but  had  scarcely  opened  it  before  he  shut  it  again, 
and  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  I  can't  sleep  unless  I  take  a  look  outside,  to  see  if 

'       all  is  safe,"  said  he,  as,  putting  on  his  overcoat  and 

cap,  he  went  outside,  and  after  a  few  moments  returned. 


CHIGNECTO. 


103 


and  asked  to  see  the  captain  immediately,  saying  that 
there  were  lights  in  several  of  the  neighboring  houses 
—  a  suspicious  circumstance  at  so  late  an  hour,  as  it 
was  nearly  three  in  the  morning. 

As  he  stood  waiting,  the  sentinel  asked  why  he 
ceased  reading  so  suddenly. 

"  I  had  scarcely  placed  my  eyes  on  the  page  when  I 
found  these  words :  '  The  Philistines  be  upon  thee, 
Samson.' "  ^ 

Even  as  he  spoke  came  the  crash  of  musketry,  the 
shaking  of  splintered  pane  and  shattered  sash,  the 
ring  of  axes  on  oaken  panels  and  barred  shutter,  the 
cries  of  the  Acadian  hunters,  the  terrible  war-cry  of 
the  Abenaqui,  mingling  with  the  groans  of  those 
wounded  by  the  volley,  and  the  shrieking  storm 
without. 

Morris  sprang  from  his  chamber,  sword  in  hand, 
crying,  "  To  your  feet,  boys !  the  French  are  upon 
us ! "  while  Hamlin,  and  the  few  on  duty,  fired  upon 
those  engaged  in  hewing  at  the  entrance.  The  men 
sprang  from  the  floor,  and,  notwithstanding  the  sud- 
denness of  the  attack,  were  soon  engaged  in  a  gallant 
defence. 

With  the  other  party  it  had  been  otherwise,  The 
force  assigned  to  that  portion  of  the  village  had  had  no 
intimation  of  danger,  no  kindly  disturbance  to  awaken, 
no  vision  to  alarni ;  all  had  slept  in  fatal  security  until 
awakened  by  the  crash  of  falling  doors,  an4  the  rush 
of  armed  men.  Then  in  yain  was  the  strong  arm  and 
dauntless  heart,  the  keen  sword  and  heavy  musket; 
down  \vent  ofllcer  and  man  before  the  knife  and  dead- 
ly hatchet,  and  fevy  escapee^  therp.    As  Morris  and 


111''  '.   '!'.:•■■ 


II 


104 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


his  men  fought  in  their  smoke-dimmed  citadel,  over 
the  noise  of  their  own  conflict  came  the  din  of  their 
comrades*  struggle  for  life  ;  and  their  eyes  glared  more 
fiercely,  their  faces  grew  sterner,  as  they  poured  from 
shattered  window  and  rude  loophole  the  fiery  stream 
of  wounds  and  death. 

Until  the  storm  ceased  its  fury,  and  the  winds  sank 
to  rest,  while  the  clouds  broke  into  rifted  masses, 
through  which  the  pale  moon  threw  her  rays  of  light, 
until  the  east  grew  radiant  with  coming  day,  and 
the  increasing  light  gave  new  advantages  to  the  be- 
sieged, whose  fire  hourly  grew  fiercer  and  more 
deadly,  until  the  brave  officer  saw  that  the  other 
portion  of  the  garrison  had  been  cut  to  pieces,  that 
resistance  was  useless,  since  his  men  were  outnum- 
bered, and  there  were  none  to  relieve  him  or  to  raise 
the  siege. 

Then  he  displayed  the  white  flag,  and  received 
from  Du  Thet  liberal  terms  of  capitulation,  to  which 
he  agreed ;  and  his  men,  with  full  cartridge-boxes 
and  haversacks,  but  heavy  hearts,  marched  past  the 
captured  barracks  and  the  corpses  of  their  comrades; 
the  jeering  villagers ;  the  disappointed  savages,  who 
were  with  difficulty  restrained  from  seizing  the  spoil 
taken,  as  it  seemed,  from  their  very  grasp  ;  by  log-house 
and  frozen  streamlet,  into  the  snow-wreathed  pines, 
through  which  lay  the  trail  to  their  city  of  refuge, 
Annapolis.  -      f 

Shortly  after  this,  Ramsay  returned  to  Canada  with 
his  forces,  and  Du  Thet  remained  at  Chignecto,  labor- 
ing among  the  Indians,  plotting  against  the  English, 
and,  whenever  there  was  an  opportunity,  laying  waste 


CHIGNECTO. 


105 


their  settlements  with  fire  and  sword.  The  autumn 
of  1747  witnessed  the  cessation  of  hostilities  between 
the  two  powers,  caused  by  the  treaty  of  Aix-la-Cha- 
pelle,  and  in  1749  the  He  Royale  was  returned  to 
France. 

The  children  of  De  Courcy,  under  the  care  of 
Ulalic,  the  teachings  of  Du  Thet,  and  in  the  sports  of 
the  forest  and  river,  found  the  food  of  strength  and 
beauty,  far  above  that  of  the  average. 

Now,  reader,  we  must  leave  untold  the  story  of 
their  childhood ;  its  joys  and  sorrows,  its  noble  aims 
and  bright  imaginings,  and  hasten  to  relate  their  story 
of  trial,  of  love,  of  happiness,  and  of  separation  —  a 
tale  for  the  most  part  of  disappointment  and  gloom. 


t 


(: 


al  -v?iij.ir, 


h^>.^ 


i)  it'M^  ^:4^u^i^i^. 


iiii 


1 06 


CHAPTER    XIII. 


FATHER  AUGUSTINE. 


I  HAVE  said  time  would  not  allow  a  narration  of 
the  events  connected  with  the  history  of  the  child- 
hood of  Rosalie  and  Hubert :  still  a  short  account  of 
some  of  them  may  not  be  uninteresting.  Their  earlier 
years  were  spent  almost  entirely  under  the  care  of 
Ulalie,  and  the  language  of  her  race  was  as  familiar 
to  them  as  their  own,  and  many  days  they  spent  in 
the  woods  with  the  Indian  children,  many  nights  be- 
neath the  shelter  of  the  frail  lodge  of  fragrant  birch 
bark. 

As  they  grew  older,  the  Jesuit  taught  them  in 
his  leisure  hours  ;  and  they  mastered  not  only  the  com- 
mon branches,  but  the  works  of  those  who  sang  and 
chronicled  in  other  tongues,  and  the  wonders  of  as- 
tronomy, and  geography.  But  the  time  of  Du  Thet 
was  so  taken  up  with  his  political  schemes,  that  had  it 
not  been  for  Father  Augustine,  their  education  would 
have  been  very  limited.  He  it  was  who  nearly  every 
day  heard  them  read  from  the  many  volumes  around 
them ;  patiently  heard  them  explain  the  problems 
which  puzzled  their  young  minds;  or  made  them 
count  beach  nuts,  or  divide  apples,  to  make  clear  the 
mysteries  of  "  vulgar  fractions ; "  who  hung  a  ball  by 
a  thread  near  a  lighted  candle,  to  show  them  how  the 


^  -fm 


FATHER  AUGUSTINE. 


107 


sun  is  made  to  rise  and  set  by  turns,  leaving  men  in 
darkness,  or  ushering  in  the  glorious  day.  And  he 
spoke  to  them  of  God,  the  Creator  of  all  things  ;  of  the 
world,  young  and  beautiful  as  it  first  came  from  his 
hands ;  of  our  first  parents,  happy  and  sinless  —  of 
Adam  strong  and  wise,  of  Eve  beautiful  and  loving ; 
of  the  temptation,  the  fall,  the  terrible  retribution. 

Then  of  the  long  years  that  passed  of  sorrow,  war, 
and  death  to  our  race,  when  men  could  gain  heaven 
only  by  compliance  with  arbitrary  rules  of  life,  and 
faith  in  a  Redeemer  to  come ;  of  the  coming  of  that 
Redeemer ;  of  his  love  for  men ;  his  pity,  his  purity, 
his  sacrifice  for  us. 

Then  he  would  speak  of  his  disciples ;  of  the 
labors  of  Paul,  the  teachings  of  Peter,  the  martyrdom 
of  Stephen  ;  the  glories  supernal  which  made  the  crags 
of  Patmoe  a  paradise  to  the  "  beloved  apostle  ; "  until, 
as  he  thus  spoke  to  them,  sitting  beneath  the  birches  by 
the  brook,  or  in  the  porch,  lit  by  the  rays  of  the  declin- 
ing sun,  his  venerable  face  seemed  transfigured  by  the 
faith  within,  and  his  lessons  fell  deep  into  the  young 
hearts  of  his  listeners.  Would  that  he  had  lived  longer 
thus  to  teach,  for  many  sad  events  might  thus  have 
been  averted  from  the  history  of  their  lives. 

Between  Du  Thet  and  himself  there  grew  up  a  feel- 
ing of  estrangement ;  for  the  old  man,  in  after  years, 
repented  himself  of  his  part  in  stirring  up  the  French 
Neutrals  to  the  attack  on  Minas,  and  grieved  much  at 
the  loss  of  life  which  attended  it,  blaming  himself  as 
an  unfaithful  shepherd,  who  had  lost  a  part  of  his 
flock. 

When  the  Jesuit,  in   his  Linplacable  hatred  to  the 


io8 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


t 


English,  cut  off  their  out-lying  settlements,  and  sur- 
prised unguarded  boats'  crews,  he  remonstrated  with 
him,  and  saved  many  a  life,  which  else  had  been  sac- 
rificed ;  and,  indeed,  his  desire  to  alleviate  the  horrors 
of  guerrilla  warfare  was  the  cause  of  his  death. 

For,  some  five  years  after  the  attack  on  Colonel 
Noble's  detachment,  there  moved  into  Nova  Scotia  an 
Englishman  by  the  name  of  Percy,  who,  with  his 
family  and  several  servants,  purchased  a  tract  of  land 
in  Chignecto,  and  regardless  of  a  warning  from  Du 
Thet,  and  the  advice  of  the  English  commandant  at 
Annapolis,  settled  thereon.  The  summer  passed  quiet- 
ly enough,  with  the  exception  of  an  attack  by  a  war- 
party  of  Micmacs,  who  were  repulsed  with  the  loss  of 
two  or  three  of  their  number ;  whereupon  Percy  be- 
came more  indepei  dent  than  ever,  and  sent  a  message 
to  Du  Thet,  threatening  him  with  worse  treatment, 
should  he  attempt  another  attack. 

In  reality.  Father  Augustine  had  dissuaded  the  Jes- 
uit from  molesting  Percy ;  and  the  attack  spoken  of 
had  been  made  by  a  band  of  marauders,  led  by  a  petty 
chief.  Du  Thet,  vexed  by  the  insult,  and  incensed 
by  other  acts  of  Percy's  committed  on  his  French  and 
Indian  neighbors,  determined  on  revenge.  In  vain 
Father  Augustine  preached  forgiveness  and  mercy  ;  the 
determined  sullenness  of  the  Jesuit  told  but  too  well 
of  his  settled  purposes. 

So,  late  in  the  succeeding  January,  Father  Augus- 
tine, while  resting  in  a  wigwam,  where  he  had  been 
called  to  visit  a  dying  man,  was  awakened  by  the  loud 
voice  of  L'Our  Blanc,  who  called  the  men  to  arm, 
and  to  prepare   to   accompany  the   Black   Robe   of 


FATHER  AUGUSTINE. 


109 


Chignecto,  and  gathered  from  his  language  that  at 
last  the  Percys  were  to  feel  the  power  they  had  so 
foolishly  defied. 

Scarcely  had  they  departed,  when  he  arose,  and, 
putting  on  his  heavy  cloak  and  warm  furs,  went  forth 
into  the  cold  night  air. 

"  I  will  meet  him  on  the  way,"  he  said,  "  and  plead    , 
with  him  for  the  lives  of  his  victims."  ^ 

He  plunged  into  the  heavy  drifts,  and  threaded 
the  narrow  paths  of  the  forests  clogged  with  snow  and 
embarrassed  with  trunks  of  fallen  trees,  until  the  day- 
light found  him  within  a  few  miles  of  his  destination, 
and  he  saw,  to  his  joy,  that  none  had  passed  that  way. 

But  he  was  very  weary,  and,  seating  himself  to  rest, 
bethought  himself  how  he  should  be  able  to  stand  be- 
tween the  lion  and  his  prey.  Drawing  his  Bible 
from  his  pocket,  he  turned  over  the  pages  with  stiffen- 
ing fingers,  looking  anxiously  over  the  leaves,  until  he 
came  to  the  fifth  chapter  of  Matthew,  and  read  with 
dim  eyes  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount.  ^ 

The  weather  was  so  cold  that  the  war-party  had 
stopped  a  while  to  warm  and  rest  themselves,  and  the 
exertions  of  the  good  priest  had  weakened  his  physi- 
cal energies,  while,  in  his  efforts  to  save  those  of  another 
race  and  faith,  he  had  not  noticed  the  effects  of  the  in- 
tense cold  on  his  own  frame. 

But,  unconscious  of  this,  he  read  slowly,  "  Blessed 
are  the  merciful,  for  they  shall  obtain  mercy,"  and 
turned  down  the  leaf  at  this  place ;  then  read  and 
mused  over  the  following  verses :  "  Blessed  are  the 
pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God." 

"  Blessed   are   the  peacemakers,  for  they   shall   be 


<<' 


■■]■■  I 


mf 


III  '•■■ 

I'll' 


IIO 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


Ill  In 


called  the  children  of  God  ;  "  when,  rising,  he  found  that 
he  was  very  weary,  and  scarce  able  to  move  ;  and  then 
he  knew  that  he  must  die  unless  help  came  soon  ;  but  the 
thought  gave  him  no  fear.  And  kneeling,  he  prayed 
that  through  his  death  the  avenger  might  be  stayed ; 
he  prayed  for  his  flock,  and  then  for  himself;  and  a 
dreamy,  drowsy  sensation  seized  him  ;  yet  he  knew  that 
he  was  dying,  and  strove  to  resist  it  in  vain  ;  and  so 
praying  he  fell  asleep,  the  little  crucifix  before  him, 
the  open  book  on  his  bended  knees,  a  smile  on  his 
cold,  pale  face. 

Down  the  path  came  the  tall  form  of  Du  Thet,  with 
sword  on  hip  and  carbine  in  hand,  and  behind  him  a 
score  or  more  of  painted  and  plumed  Abenaquis. 
Silently  and  sternly  they  pressed  on,  as  men  bent  un- 
swervingly to  a  settled  purpose,  of  which  nothing 
should  prevent  or  hinder  the  accomplishment. 

He  started  as  he  saw  the  kneeling  form  of  the  Do- 
minican, and  then  muttering,  "  It  is  useless  to  inter- 
cede," was  passing  sternly  by,  when  his  band,  with  cries 
of  sorrow  and  awe,  fell  upon  their  knees ;  and  drawing 
nearer,  he  discovered  that  Father  Augustine  was  dead. 
He  took  the  book  from  the  unresisting  hands,  read  the 
passage  marked  by  the  dying  priest,  and  then,  turn- 
ing to  his  band,  spoke  a  few  words  in  their  own 
tongue. 

With  boughs  they  made  a  rough  litter,  and  laid 
Father  Augustine  in  blankets  thereon,  bearing  him 
sorrowfully  homeward.  Deep  was  the  grief,  far  and 
wide,  among  French  and  Abenaqui ;  and  Percy,  to 
whom  Du  Thet  sent  an  account  of  the  manner  of 
his  death,  came  with  his  whole  family  to  the  funeral 


'Wm 


FATHER  AUGUSTINE. 


Ill 


laid 

him 

and 

;y,  to 

er  of 

neral 


which  followed.  He  was  laid  in  the  little  churchyard, 
with  a  rough  cross  above  his  grave ;  and  for  a  year 
after,  Du  Thet  went  but  seldom  on  the  war-path,  and 
the  English  had  rest  ^rom  their  fears.  But  the  chil- 
dren had  lost  their  teacher  and  friend,  and  grew  up 
with  little  teaching  from  Du  Thet,  save  of  worldly 
wisdom  or  mystical  secrets. 

And  in  the  spring  of  1755  we  find  them,  at  eighteen 
years  of  age,  the  pride  of  the  village,  and  the  assistants 
of  the  Jesuit  in  all  his  schemes  for  the  success  of 
French  domination. 

Rosalie  was  black-haired,  dark-eyed,  rather  above 
the  medium  height,  and  very  beautiful ;  in  disposition, 
studious,  ambitious,  and  loving,  but  secretive.  To  her 
the  priest  had  imparted  much  of  his  mystical  lore,  and 
they  spent  many  hours  together  in  the  little  laboratory 
which  he  had  had  constructed  beneath  their  dwell- 
ing. As  yet  her  maiden  heart  had  felt  no  love  beyond 
that  of  a  brother's,  or  her  affection  for  Du  Thet  and 
her  nurse  Ulalie. 

Hubert  had  grown  up  to  be  a  mighty  hunter ;  for  the 
White  Bear  had  taught  him  to  use  the  bow,  lance,  and 
gun,  to  paddle  the  light  quetan^  to  spear  the  spotted 
trout,  the  strong  salmon,  and  the  huge  porpoise,  to  run 
down  the  antlered  moose  and  swift  caribou  among  the 
crusted  drifts,  and  to  bring  to  bay  the  fierce  lynx  and 
savage  bear.  His  laugh  was  ever  merry,  nor  could  he 
be  brought  to  imitate  the  taciturnity  of  his  half-savage 
Mentor.  He  was  the  admired  of  all  the  village  maidens 
from  Chignecto  to  Minas ;  but  Gabrielle  Renaud,  the 
daughter  of  a  rich  farmer  of  Chignecto,  held  him  cap- 
tive, and  their  betrothal  was  widely  known.     ^ 


Iff,'; 


112 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


i 


Louisburg  had  been  for  many  a  year  in  the  posses- 
sion of  its  founders,  for  England  had  ceded  it  to  France 
in  exchange  for  territory  nearer  home  ;  and  with  bat- 
tlements strengthened,  and  new  armaments,  protected 
a  commerce  fully  equal  to  that  of  former  days. 

L'Our  Blanc  had  visited  the  Isle  of  St.  John  several 
times,  but  only  for  a  short  stay,  to  hunt,  or  to  engage  in 
some  war  expedition  ;  and  now,  together  with  Du  Thet, 
was  preparing  for  a  last  grand  effort  to  drive  the  Eng- 
lish from  Acadia. 

But  the  English  were  filling  their  settlements  there 
v/ith  troops,  and  Minas  was  again  occupied  by  colonial 
rangers.  Du  Thet  would  know  their  force,  and  the 
purposes  for  which  they  were  stationed  there  ;  and  he 
sent  Rosalie  to  find  out. 

So  Rosalie  sailed  across  the  quiet  bay,  up  the  stream 
of  the  vvood-fringcd  Gaspereau,  starting  the  clamorous 
geese  and  timid  wood-ducks  from  their  haunts,  and 
finally  landing  on  the  level  meadows  below  the  vil- 
lage. Her  friend  Christine  was  there  to  meet  her, 
greeting  her  with  friendly  kiss  and  loving  embrace, 
and  led  her  through  the  budding  copses  and  orchards 
to  the  old  homestead  where  her  father,  Jacques  Gallant, 
had  lived  from  the  day  of  his  birth,  and  where  /its 
father  had  lived  before  him.  After  the  many  inquiries 
about  mutual  friends,  they  ate  their  homely  evening 
meal,  after  which  they  sat  talking  until  late,  and  then 
retired,  —  not  to  sleep,  but  to  talk  longer,  after  the 
manner  of  young  ladies  of  modern  times. 

"I  hear  you  have  the  soldiers  here  again,"  said 
Rosalie. 

Yes,  they  came  last  week,"  said  Christine ;  "  they 


(( 


FATHER  AUGUSTINE. 


"3 


have  about  one  hundred  men,  and  most  of  them  yoimg 
and  very  good  looking,"  she  added. 

"  They  are  heretics  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  but  Very  civil  and  kind  to  all ;  and  they  pay 
for  all  that  they  take  from  us." 

"  How  many  officers  are  there?" 

"  A  major  and  two  lieutenants ;  one  of  the  lieuten- 
ants is  so  pretty  !  and,  by  the  way,  he  will  come  here 
to-morrow,  to  see  about  paying  for  some  fences  burned 
by  his  men." 

Much  more  of  like  nature  followed  ;  in  truth  it  was 
well  towards  morning  when  Rosalie  fell  asleep,  in 
the  midst  of  a  full  and  minute  account,  given  by  Chris- 
tine, of  a  new  head-dress  which  she  was  preparing  to 
wear  at  the  next  festival. 

So  when  Lieutenant  Thorncliffe  came  the  next 
morning  to .  see  the  old  farmer  about  the  petty  depre- 
dations of  his  men,  he  saw  a  new  face,  and  one  which 
bewitched  him  so,  that  he  determined  to  call  again 
and  again  and  again.  Rosalie,  with  her  woman's  wit, 
soon  learned  all  that  the  young  New  Englander  could 
impart  regarding  English  projects  and  forces ;  while 
Du  Thet  chuckled  over  the  success  of  his  "  pretty 
little  spy,"  forgetting  that  Rosalie  was  young,  beauti- 
ful, and  loving,  that  he  had  once  founB  love  strong 
enough  to  break  his  strong  will,  and  to  render  him 
false  to  his  promises  to  others. 

But  Rooalie  held  to  her  purpose  for  many  weeks, 
and  it  was  not  until  the  night  before  her  visit  expired, 
that  she  found  her  heart  was  no  longer  unfettered  ;  nor 
was  it  until  then   that  ThornclifTe   learned  that  the 


114 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


iiiiiiii'lii 


little  Acadienne  had  become  a  part  of  his  life,  without 
which,  existence  seemed  lonely  and  cheerless. 

At  last  Rosalie's  task  was  completed  ;  her  visit  drew 
near  its  close,  and  the  morrow  was  to  witness  her  de- 
parture. She  sat  in  the  door-way,  silent  and  pensive ; 
by  her  side  stood  Thorncliffe,  who  had  stopped  a  few 
moments  on  his  return  from  a  gunning  expedition. 
Against  the  wall  leaned  the  heavy  musket ;  at  her  feet 
lay  the  spoils  of  the  chase  —  the  delicate  brant,  the 
swift-winged  snipe,  and  luckless  hare. 

"  And  so  you  leave  us  to-morrow,"  said  Thornclifle, 
at  last. 

"Yes,  I  go  home  to-morrow,  and  Christine  goes 
with  me." 

"  I  shall  miss  you  much." 

"  For  a  time,  yet  you  will  soon  forget  me :  it  is  the 
way  of  the  world." 

"  It  is,  perhaps,  best  that  we  part  now,  for  we  may 
not  love  each  other,  and  hope  to  realize  its  consumma- 
tion," said  Thorncliffe. 

"  You  speak  truly  —  it  is  best." 

Now,  both  of  these  young  people  loved  each  other ; 
each  meant  to  hide  their  emotions,  and  the  hearts  of 
both  quivered  beneath  the  stabs  of  this  assumed  indif- 
ference. 

"Will  you  walk  with  me  a  little  way,  Rosalie?" 

She  arose,  and  side  by  side  they  walked  down  the 
village  street,  over  the  rustic  bridge,  into  the  dusky 
shadows  of  the  forest,  speaking  of  the  incidents  of  the 
past  few  weeks,  the  merry  dances,  the  boat  excursions 
—  the  little  events  of  a  village  life.  Each  wondered 
if  the  other  was  as  cold  and  indifferent  as  they  mutually 


imoik 


V  "W 


FATHER   AUGUSTINE. 


"5 


Bcemed ;  each  burned  to  tell  of  the  strong,  earnest  pas- 
sion that  held  and  thrilled  them  ;  yet  each  withstood 
the  spell,  and  they  returned  to  the  house  happy  in  hav- 
ing seen  the  object  of  their  devotion,  weary  with  the 
sadness  which  follows  a  love  without  return.    . 

As  Thorncliffe  walked  homeward,  he  thought  of  his 
New  England  home  in  Boston  :  of  his  father,  stern,  just, 
and  cold  ;  of  his  Puritan  faith  ;  of  the  foreign  tongue 
and  strange  belief  of  her  he  loved ;  and  as  he  strode 
along  in  the  pale  moonlight,  he  said  to  himself,  "  The 
dream  is  over,  the  spell  is  broken ;  it  were  better  so ; 
but  —  I  am  miserable." 

And  Rosalie  lay  very  quietly,  that  night,  by  the  side 
of  Christine  ;  and  once,  as  the  simple  girl  pressed  her 
cheek  to  hers,  a  tear  fell  upon  it ;  and  we  may  imagine 
that  her  thoughts  of  Thorncliffe  were  much  like  his 
of  her. 

The  morrow  came.  The  sun  rose  hot  and  sultry, 
and  it  was  decided  to  remain  until  the  evening,  with 
its  cool  breeze  and  milder  light.  Thorncliffe  came  in 
late  in  the  afternoon,  and  sat  talking,  growing  wildly 
merry  and  quietly  sad  by  turns,  as  did  Rosalie. 

Then,  in  the  early  gray  of  the  evening,  he  walked 
with  the  little  party  down  to  the  boat,  and  stood  with 
them  on  the  silent  shore  beneath  the  dark  shades  of  the 
birches,  gazing  on  the  glassy  waves,  which  scarce 
rippled  as  the  tide  drew  nearer  their  feet.       *" 

They  saw  the  dark  shadows  where  the  tall  cliffs 
hung  above  the  bay,  or  where  the  low  shore  bristled 
thick  with  forest  trees;  then  the  moon  rose  slowly, 
throwing  her  gentle  rays  here  and  there  through  the 
branches,  until  the  whole  bay  shone  like  molten  silver. 

8 


liii 


ii6 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


Tlicn  they  drew  nearer  to  each  other,  until  the  head 
of  the  pretty  Acadienne  leaned  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
tall  young  officer,  while  his  arm  half  encircled  her 
waist.  Neither  spoke ;  for  the  time,  the  hour,  the 
place,  the  occasion,  told  of  love  alone,  and  other 
speech  were  needless. 

But  the  young  boatmen  launched  the  light  boat, 
and  placed  their  little  packets  therein,  and  Christine 
stepped  nimbly  aboard.  Rosalie's  companions  awaited 
her,  and  she  must  go.  She  looked  up  into  his  face,  and 
he  saw  the  tears  that  dimmed  her  eyes,  as  she  said,  "  I 
must  go,  mon  ami;  you  see  they  await  me.     Adieu  ! " 

He  raised  her  hand  quickly  to  his  lips,  placed  her 
in  the  boat,  and  then  watched  it  as  it  shot  over  the 
glassy  surface,  bearing  from  him,  as  it  seemed,  all  that 
was  lovely  and  desirable  on  earth.  She,  looking 
back,  saw  the  tall  soldier  standing  where  she  had  left 
him,  and  wondered  if  he  would  ever  think,  in  after 
years,  of  the  little  French  girl  he  had  met  in  a  strange 
and  hostile  land." 

For  neither  knew  that  they  were  to  meet  and  love 
again,  and  still  less  did  they  dream  of  the  manner  and 
results  of  that  meeting. 


■v-IJ*,'   il  .     '  !', 


!ll!li 


117 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


THE   SUMMER  OF  '55. 

AT  this  time  came  news  from  the  northward, 
where,  five  years  before,  the  French  had  built 
a  fort  at  Beau  Sejour,  that  Moncton,  marching  by 
land,  and  Rous,  with  his  war-galleys,  were  drawing 
near  to  the  head  of  the  bay.  Du  Thet  raised  with  all 
speed  what  forces  he  could  among  the  French,  and 
sent  them  to  reenforce  the  fort,  remaining  himself  to 
gather  the  Abenaqui. 

But  the  Micmacs  were  widely  dispersed,  ^nd  came 
in  but  slowly  ;  so  that  it  was  several  days  before  they 
set  out  together  through  the  narrow  paths,  that  threaded 
the  odorous  pine  woods.  And  as  they  marched  and 
drew  near  the  fort,  they  heard  the  dull,  low  sound  of 
the  guns  far  away,  that  spoke  defiance  to  the  heretic.  ' 
As  they  heard  the  sound,  they  hastened  their  steps,  for 
they  knew  that  the  works  were  not  provisioned  for  a 
long  siege. 

At  their  head  strode  Du  Thet,  grim  and  taciturn, 
even  more  so  than  was  usual ;  his  light  rapier  hang- 
ing at  its  belt  of  plain  black  leather,  his  silver-mounted 
pistols  gleaming  in  the  sunlight.  Behind  him  paced 
L'Our  Blanc,  with  plumed  head-dress  nodding  above 
a  scarred  and  painted  face,  whose  keen  eyes  flashed 
with  the  lust  of  battle  at  every  sound  of  the  far-off 


p::f!'^^'':' 


ii8 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


Iiii;in 


iiiii 


guns,  as  they  came  through  the  stillness  of  the  calm, 
grand    woods,   and   then   followed  the   war-party   in 
single    file,   silent   and    steady  as  became    warriors, 
swiftly  and  earnestly  pressing  forward  as  men  afraid  • 
of  being  tardy  at  a  feast. 

At  last  they  reached  the  La  Planche,  and,  crossing 
the  little  stream,  lay  down  to  rest,  and  slept  heavily  ; 
but  Du  Thet,  before  following  the  example  of  his  men, 
reconnoitred  the  ground  in  company  with  L'Our 
Blanc,  and  then,  with  the  earliest  light,  pressed  on- 
ward ;  for  the  guns  were  silent,  and  a  presentiment  of 
evil  weighed  heavily  upon  him.  Leaving  the  dense 
forests,  they  pressed  forward  up  the  rough  hill-sides, 
and,  gaining  the  steep,  looked  down  on  the  plains 
below. 

There  lay  the  rival  fortresses  on  either  side  of  the 
Massaquash,  across  whose  stream,  a  week  before,  the 
soldiers  of  either  nation  had  exchanged  bullets  before 
the  fight,  promising  to  return  them  from  the  mouths 
of  their  muskets ;  the  tents  of  the  English  and  New 
Englanders,  and  long  lines  of  men,  stood  on  either 
bank.  But  no  sound  of  sullen  gun,  or  rattling  fusillade, 
came  up  the  feteep  on  the  cool  breeze,  and  the  sun 
looked  down  on  a  landscape  unshrouded  by  the  sul- 
phurous veil,  which  Bellona  casts  over  her  fearful 
rites.  Du  Thet  groaned  inwardly,  for  two  flags 
waved  over  Beau  Sejour  —  the  Red  Cross  of  Eng- 
land with  tlie  Lilies  of  France  beneath  it.  On  the 
waters  of  the  bay  lay  the  vessels  of  Rous,  the  terror 
of  the  coast.  ^     ^ 

There  the  party  remained  for  two  days  before  they 
were   discovered  by  the  English,  who  immediately 


.*  ■ 


\'-^' 


THE   SUMMER  OP  '55. 


119 


pursued  them  with  a  superior  force;  and  Du  Thet, 
after  a  short  skirmish,  in  which  but  two  or  three  were 
killed  on  either  side,  drew  off  his  men,  and  marched 
swiftly  back  by  the  way  he  came.  But  on  the  first 
night  of  the  retreat,  while  resting  among  his  men  on 
the  banks  of  the  Nepan,  a  strange  thing  occurred. 

As  he  sat  by  the  smouldering  embers  of  the  bivouac 
fire,  he  drew  from  his  bosoni  the  little  casket  which 
years  ago  he  had  found  lying  on  the  breast  of  the  slain 
nephew  of  L'Our  Blanc.  He  examined  the  mystic 
inscription,  the  tiny  arrows  tightly  cinctured  with 
white  bands,  and  wondered  how  soon  one  of  the  shafts 
would  inform  him,  by  its  disappearance,  of  the  coming 
of  the  mighty  spirit  he  had  once  invoked  ;  and  as  he 
thought,  he  reclasped  the  case,  replaced  it  m  his 
bosom,  and  leaned  back  against  the  trunk  of  a  smooth 
birch,  listening  to  the  rippling  of  the  brook,  and  the 
moaning  of  the  swaying  branches.  The  fire  burned 
lower,  and  he  began  to  drowse,  when  suddenly  he 
thought  he  saw  a  human  form  before  him.  It  grew 
more  distinct ;  a  shape  savagely  clad,  yet  grand  in  its 
wildness ;  above  the  ordinary  height,  yet  finely  pro- 
portioned ;  and  by  the  long,  white  beard,  the  plumed 
head-dress,  and  huge  silver  medal,  the  Jesuit  recog- 
nized the  mighty  ancestor  of  the  noblest  blood  of  the 
Abenaqui. 

Through  the  gloom,  in  low,  deep  tones,  came  words 
vague  ai?d  unsatisfactory,  yet  full  of  unhappy  import : 
"  The  axe  will  be  silent  in  the  forests,  the  earth  will 
be  untorn  by  spade  or  furrow,  the  lilies  shall  fade,  the 
cross  alone  remain."  Deeper  grew  the  darkness,  the 
form  faded  from  view,  and  the  Jesuit  slept  until  the 


1 


il     JE4 


I20 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


morning  rays  warned  him  that  it  was  time  to  press  on 
to  the  point  of  departure. 

Then,  as  they  marched,  the  remembrance  of  his 
vision  returned,  and  he'  drew  forth  the  casket.  The 
clasp  was  as  he  had  left  it,  the  cincture  closely  bound  ; 
but  the  mystic  trio  of  shafts  had  lost  one  of  their  num- 
ber, and  Du  Thet  from  that  moment  dreaded  the 
future :  yet  he  warned  the  Acadians  as  he  marched, 
and  some  hid  their  arms  and  munitions,  so  that, 
although  Moncton,  following  close  behind,  disarmed 
many,  he  did  not  succeed  in  rendering  them  wholly 
defenceless. 

The  Jesuit,  reaching  home,  bade  his  band  adieu, 
and,  hiding  his  arms  and  accoutrements,  became 
again  the  simple  missionary ;  while  the  Abenaqui 
washed  the  war-paint  from  their  faces,  and  passed  the 
time  in  hunting  and  fishing,  so  that  there  was  peace 
for  a  time. 

The  pleasant  summer  passed  slowly  away,  and 
Hubert,  Christine,  and  Gabrielle  went  on  many  pleas- 
ant excursions,  from  which  they  returned  crowned 
with  flowers  and  laden  with  berries ;  or,  as  they 
paddled  the  canoe  homeward  from  their  quest  after 
the  speckled  trout,  they  filled  the  still  twilight  with 
simple  melodies  and  guileless  mirth.  In  the  evenings, 
gathered  around  the  hearth,  they  listened  to  the  his- 
toric story  or  weird  legend  told  by  Du  Thet^  or  oftener 
by  his  scholars,  Rosalie  and  Hubert,  while  Christine 
would  relate  the  legends  of  her  own  district,  or 
Gabrielle  sang  the  lays  taught  her  by  her  mother. 
L'Our  Blanc  would  sometimes  stalk  in,  and  sit  listen- 
ing until  the  last  story  was  told,  the  last  song  sung,  and 


THE   SUMMER  OF  '55. 


121 


then  glide  silently  out  of  the  house,  and  through  the 
forest,  to  his  lodge  by  the  lake. 

But  one  evening  Rosalie,  as  she  finished  a  story, 
asked  the  chief  to  relate  one  ;  and,  greatly  to  her  sur- 
prise, he  acceded,  and  told  them  a  tale  of  his  early 
manhood,  and  his  first  essays  on  the  war-path.  It  ran 
as  follows :  — 

*'  The  voice  of  the  war-chief  cannot  charm  like  that 
of  the  adopted  daughter  of  the  Black  Robe,  for  it  has 
been  rarely  heard,  except  in  the  councils  of  warriors, 
the  excitement  of  the  headlong  chase,  or  the  fury  of 
battle ;  and  only  of  such  scenes  may  I  speak  ;  for  the 
life  of  the  White  Bear  has  been  like  that  of  the  dreaded 
ranger  of  the  icy  seas  whose  name  he  bears  —  a  suc- 
cession of  wily  plottings,  of  chasing  the  inhabitants  of 
the  wild  forests,  and  of  desperate  enterprises  ;  yet  the 
memory  of  the  old  war-chief  goes  back  to  the  time 
when,  as  a  boy,  he  roamed  in  the  woods  and  by  silent 
rivers  with  tiny  bow,  and  slender  fish-spear ;  to  the 
mother  who  fed  him  with  the  choicest  food,  and  clothed 
him  as  became  the  son  of  a  great  warrior ;  who  spoke 
to  him  of  the  deeds  of  the  past,  and  urged  him  to  be 
worthy  of  the  fame  of  his  ancestors'. 

"  He  remembers  the  yeajs  of  his  youth  ;  how  with 
joy  he  obtained  permission  to  join  the  warriors  in  the 
chase ;  of  his  rambles  with  the  beautiful  Wuspem,  the 
'  Summer  Lake,'  ever  placid  and  smiling,  whose  sweet 
life-springs  were  dried  up  by  the  deadly  fever,  that 
turned  the  war-camp  of  Chebucto,  into  one  huge 
burial-ground,  and  broke  forever  the  strength  of  the 
Abenaqui. 

'*Then  of  his  yearnings  for  fame,  his  desiies  to  go 


Ill 


^il 


122 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


upon  the  war-path,  that  he  might  gain  the  applause 
of  his  tribe,  and  bring  back  from  the  field  the  spoils 
of  the  foe ;  that  he  might  lay  them  at  the  feet  of  his 
love,  and  claim  her  hand  as  a  recompense. 

"  Great  was  his  joy,  when,  one  night,  his  father  re- 
turned from  the  council,  and  told  him  to  arm  and  pre- 
pare to  go  with  a  great  war-party,  which  was  to  set 
out  on  the  morrow.  All  night  he  sharpened  his  arrows 
and  knife,  and  covered  his  smooth  face  with  heavy 
lines  of  red  and  black.  He  fell  asleep  just  as  the 
shadows  began  to  grow  gray  in  the  east ;  arid,  rising 
with  the  sun,  he  joined  the  war-party,  whose  light 
canoes  were  soon  darting  over  the  glassy  billows  in 
the  direction  of  the  Pass  de  Fronsac. 

"  Here  we  were  joined  by  many  others,  and,  as  the 
evening  shades  gathered,  we  glided  under  the  darker 
shadows  cast  by  the  overhanging  trees,  towards  the 
settlements  of  the  Anglasheowe.  A  small  schooner 
lay  at  anchor,  and  several  stores  and  dwelling-houses 
stood  on  the  bank :  all  was  silent ;  not  even  a  dog 
was  on  the  watch.  A  stealthy  landing ;  a  silent  ap- 
proach ;  a  gathering  of  canoes  around  the  unguard- 
ed bark ;  a  moment  of  breathless  suspense  as  we 
waited  the  signal  shot. 

"  A  flash  lighting  up  the  dark  shore  ;  a  sharp  report 
echoing  far  away  among  the  silent  caves  and  lofty 
hills,  followed  by  the  war-whoop  of  the  Abenaqui ;  the 
rush  of  eager  feet  to  the  attack  ;  and  the  cries  of  cow- 
ardly men,  the  scattering  shots  of  those  who  dared 
even  then  to  resist.  -^-''t 

"  On  land  the  attack  was  soon  over,  and  the  spoil 
our  own,  the  employees  of  the  fishing  station  our 


THE   SUMMER  OF  '55. 


123 


prisoners ;  but  the  crew  of  the  schooner,  though  sur- 
prised, made  a  gallant  resistance.  From  her  cabin 
door,  and  windows,  flashed  the  deadly  muskets,  and 
several  braves  fell  on  her  deck  or  dropped  into  the 
eddies  of  the  swift  tide.  At  last  I  was  struck  in  the 
the  shoulder,  and,  maddened  by  the  pain,  I  rushed 
against  the  door,  followed  by  my  comrades.  It  gave 
way,  and  we  entered  ;  I  remember  nothing  more,  clear- 
ly, save  a  mad  conflict,  fierce  faces,  uplifted  knives, 
clouds  of  smoke,  and  cries  of  desperation,  pain,  and 
triumph,  until  I  seemed  to  awake  on  the  deck  of  the 
schooner,  which,  laden  with  spoil,  and  towing  the 
canoes,  was  gliding  swiftly  past  the  shores  of  the  He 
Royale  to  the  port  of  Louisburg.  Crowding  around 
me,  the  old  men  told  me  of  my  bravery  in  the  fight, 
and  called  me  the  White  Bear,  because  of  my  strength 
and  fierceness  shown  in  the  narrow  passages  of  the 
cabins,  where  but  one  could  pass  at  a  time.  Arriving 
safely,  we  disposed  of  the  vessel  and  her  lading  of 
prey  and  captives,  and  then  held  our  way  to  the  north- 
ward to  reach  the  Isle  of  St.  John. 

"  Our  voyage  homeward  was  interrupted  by  a  furi- 
ous storm,  which  drove  us  into  Aspey  Bay,  where  we 
remained  several  days,  until  the  storm  ceased,  and  our 
little  fleet  started  late  in  the  evening  to  pursue  its 
homeward  course. 

"  From  my  uneasy  couch  in  the  centre  of  one  of  the 
canoes  I  could  see  the  glassy  waters  and  the  deep 
shadows  which  lay  beneath  the  wooded  and  rocky 
shore.  There  was  no  breeze  to  fill  the  sails,  and  the 
canoes  were  gliding  along  in  perfect  silence,  broken 
only  by  the   cadenced   dip  of  the  paddles   and   the 


124 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


voices  of  my  comrades,  who,  impressed  by  the  wild 
beauty  of  the  scene,  spoke  scarcely  above  a  whisper ; 
when  suddenly  the  foremost  canoe  stopped,  and  ex- 
clamations of  wonder,  fear,  and  warning  broke  from 
the  lips  of  its  crew.  The  other  canoes,  as  they  came 
up,  stopped  also,  until  they  formed  in  the  shape  of  a 
crescent,  the  first  canoe*in  the  centre. 

"  Looking  towards  the  mouth  of  the  harbor,  I 
saw  what  at  first  seemed  to  be  the  trunk  of  a  huge 
tree ;  but  the  agitation  of  the  water  and  the  undulat- 
ing motions  of  the  object  showed  that  it  was  some 
sea  monster.  As  it  drew  nearer,  we  saw  with  horror 
that  it  was  as  long  as  the  largest  pine  that  grows  on 
the  banks  of  the  Kennebebi,  and  that  its  head  and  part 
of  its  body  was  fringed  with  long  hair,  which  rose  and 
fell  as  it  held  its  way  towards  us.  With  desperate 
speed  we  sought  safety  in  flight,  making  for  the  shore, 
which  was  reached  without  difficulty,  and  through  the 
long  night  watched  the  monster,  as  it  swam  in  huge 
circles  around  the  little  bay.  At  daylight  it  held  its 
course  out  to  sea,  and  disappeared  from  our  view  for- 
ever. 

"  We  reached  home  safely,  but  for  many  years  our 
canoes  shunned  the  bay  which  furnished  a  haunt  to 
so  fearful  a  monster." 

And  the  old  warrior  stalked  homeward,  while  Hu- 
bert took  the  opposite  direction  with  Gabrielle,  whose 
fancy  was  so  full  of  ghost  stories  and  sea  serpents  that 
she  nestled  delightfully  close  to  Hubert's  side,  and 
started  at  every  splash  and  ripple  of  the  brook  over 
which  they  had  to  pass  on  their  way  home. 


■.■'-■-■-J-. 


125- 


CHAPTER   XV. 
DESOLATION. 

THE  weeks  of  Christine's  visit  passed  rapidly  away, 
and  she  prepared  for  her  return  home ;  Rosalie 
was  to  accompany  her,  for  news  had  come  that  the 
garrison  at  Minas  had  been  reenforced  by  troops  under 
Colonei  Winslow,  and  that  English  war-vessels  and 
transports  were  gathering  at  the  mouth  of  the  Gas- 
pereau. 

Rumors  of  all  kinds  were  rife,  but  no  two  vsjf  re  alike 
in  subject-matter,  and  the  labors  of  the  Acadians  went 
on  as  usual.  So,  in  the  last  week  of  August,  Rosalie 
left  her  home  for  the  last  time,  and  was  soon  sailing 
across  the  bay  in  the  direction  of  Minas.  As  they 
passed  through  the  fleet,  they  viewed  with  interest  the 
cannon  which  protruded  from  the  sides  of  the  black 
war-galleys,  their  tall  spars  and  the  delicate  tracery  of 
their  rigging  against  the  sky ;  then  leaving  them  far 
behind,  they  landed  beneath  the  shady  banks,  and  were 
soon  under  the  hospitable  roof  of  Jacques  Gallant. 

During  the  evening  Lieutenant  Thorncliffe  came  in, 
and  he  thought  that  Rosalie  had  never  seemed  more 
beautiful ;  for  the  cool  breeze  had  increased  the  flush 
on  her  brown  cheeks,  and  her  dark  eyes  shone  like 
stars  beneath  their  long  lashes.  Nearly  every  evening 
he  came  thus,  until  the  harvest  was  over,  the  summer 


126 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


ended,  and  the  pleasant  weather  of  that  memorable 
September  had  begun. 

Then  word  came  to  Du  Thet  that  a  force  had  been 
detached  from  the  fleet,  and  were  sailing  towards  She- 
pody  and  Memramcook ;  and  again  he  gathered  the 
Abenaqui,  and  with  swift  canoes  reached  the  farther 
side  of  the  bay,  while  yet  the  ships  were  delayed  by 
adverse  winds  ;  and  with  Hubert  and  L'Our  Blanc  he 
tried  to  raise  the  French  to  resist  the  advance  of  the 
expedition ;  but  few  consented,  for  they  desired  peace 
and  quietness.  But  they  were  doomed  to  disappoint- 
ment ;  for,  as  the  fleet  sailed  up  the  river,  the  settlements 
were  plundered  and  burned  indiscriminately  ;  and  men 
came  with  their  families  to  Du  Thet  for  shelter  for 
their  loved  ones ;  while  by  night  the  lurid  heavens, 
and  by  4ay  tall  columns  of  black  smoke,  told  that  the 
English  were  "  making  a  wilderness,  and  calling  it 
peace." 

Du  Thet  was  encamped  by  a  small  settlement,  in  the 
midst  of  which  stood  a  chapel ;  the  forest  bounded  it 
on  one  side,  and  the  river  on  the  other.  When  the 
scouts  came  in  to  announce  the  approach  of  the  flotilla, 
he.  ambushed  his  men,  sending  the  children,  women, 
and  infirm,  several  miles  inland.  The  fleet  moved 
slowly  up  the  stream,  and,  anchoring  opposite  the  vil- 
lage, landed  a  small  force,  who  began  to  apply  the 
torch  to  several  buildings,  including  the  chapel. 

From  the  still  wobds  nearest  them  shot  a  hundred 
jets  of  flame,  a  cloud  of  smoke,  a  volley  of  arrows,  and 
pealed  the  terrible  crash  of  musketry,  the  still  more 
terrible  war-cries  of  the  Abenaqui,  and  of  the  frenzied 
habitants. 


DESOLATION. 


127 


Like  a  whirlwind  L'Our  Blanc  swept  down  upon 
the  doomed  English  at  the  head  of  his  naked  warriors, 
while  the  Jesuit  led  to  the  attack  the  farmers  who  had 
seen  their  houses  given  to  the  flames,  the  fruits  of  their 
life-labor  destroyed  in  a  single  hour. 

Vainly  the  scattered  band  strove  to  avert  their  doom  ; 
in  an  instant  they  were,  with  but  two  or  three  excep- 
tions, all  killed  or  mortally  wounded,  and  the  French 
and  their  allies  had  gained  in  their  forest-fortress  a 
safe  retreat  from  the  shot  and  shell  of  the  invading 
fleet. 

Though  Du  Thet  had  been  victorious  in  this  aflair, 
he  felt  that  it  was  useless  to  resist  the  whole  force 
which  he  saw  preparing  to  land,  even  had  not  the 
complete  desolation  of  the  surrounding  country  left 
nothing  to  save  or  to  defend ;  and  again  he  •turned 
homeward,  while  the  homeless  settlers  held  their  sor- 
rowful way  to  other  settlements,  or  betook  themselves 
to  the  light  lodges  and  predatory  habits  of  the  savages 
around  them. 

Meanwhile  Rosalie  had  walked  again  with  Thorn- 
cliflfe  over  the  rustic  bridge,  into  the  shadowy  wood- 
lands in  Minas ;  again  they  had  walked  together  by 
the  landing  where,  weeks  ago,  they  had  parted  in  deep 
heart  sadness  ;  and  as  these  recollections  returned,  they 
drew  closer  to  each  other,  until  again  her  head  leaned 
heavily  on  his  shoulder,  and  his  arni  half  encircled  her 
waist:  yet  neither  spoke,  for  they  were  happy,  and 
each  feared  to  break  the  spell  by  speaking  of  the  fu- 
ture, which  each  felt  must  again  sunder  them. 

At  last  Thorncliffe  spoke :  '^  I  have  missed  you 
much,  dear  Rosalie ;  have  you  missed  me  at  all?" 


*: 


128 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


"  Yes,  mon  ami^  very  much." 

"  I  am  going  away  soon,  Rosalie  ;  shall  you  be  very 
sorry?"  he  continued;  but  looking  down,  he  saw  the 
question  answered  by  her  tears. 

He  drew  her  closer  to  his  breast,  kissing  away  the 
tears,  and  calling  her  his  "  darling,"  his  "  heart's 
queen  ;  "  and  then,  as  she  grew  calmer,  he  told  her  of 
his  love  so  long  concealed,  so  hopeless  until  that  hour ; 
of  his  sufferings  when  she  had  spoken  coplly  of  parting 
forever ;  oi  his  long  and  melancholy  musings  on  the 
beach  after  her  departure.  And  she  stood  there  enjoy- 
ing the  bright  dream  of  a  first  and  ardent  love,  listen- 
ing fondly  to  words  for  which  she  had  longed  so  deeply 
and  so  hopelessly,  until  his  tale  was  ended,  and,  raising 
her  lips  to  his,  told  him  thus,  that  his  love  was  very 
dear  to  her. 

There  by  the  glassy  bay,  beneath  the  dark  shadows 
of  the  silent  night,  he  promised  her  that  his  love  should 
be  hers  unchangeably,  invoking  God's  reward  or  pun- 
ishment as  he  should  be  true  or  false  to  her ;  and  she 
listened,  filled  with  deep  joy,  save  when  she  thought 
that  her  errand  there  in  Minas  was  to  act  the  spy,  and 
by  means  of  the  love  of  this  very  man. 

For  several  days  she  was  undecided  what  to  do, 
whether  to  confess  herself  to  him,  and  go  home  to  her 
guardian,  or  to  remain,  and  complete  her  mission.  At 
last,  on  the  evening  of  the  4th  of  September,  she  walked 
beneath  the  thrifty  apple  trees  with  Thorncliffe,  and  de- 
cided to  tell  him  all,  to  deceive  him  no  longer.  They 
walked  on  in  silence  a  few  moments,  she  from  dread  of 
the  results  of  her  disclosure,  he  from  a  burden  upon 
his  own  mind. 


( -\ 


DESOLATION. 


129 


"  I  have  a  secret  to  reveal,  Eugene,  and  I  want  you 
to  keep  it  sacredly,"  said  she,  timidly. 

"  I  will,  darling,"  said  he,  awaking  from  his  reverie. 

"  I  fear  to  tell  you,  but  I  can  deceive  you  no  longer. 
I  am  and  have  been  here  for  no  other  purpose  but  to 
enact  the  spy." 

"For  whom?" 

"  For  the  Black  Priest  of  Chignecto,  my  foster-father. 
I  have  broken  my  pledge  to  him,  for  I  could  no  longer 
deceive  you.  I  will  go  home  to-morrow,  and  you  will 
never  see  again  the  woman  who  repaid  your  love  and 
trust  with  deceit,"  she  continued  ;  and  he  felt  the  shud- 
ders that  went  through  her  frame  as  she  stifled  her 
sobs,  and  tried  to  speak  calmly. 

"  Darling,  you  shall  not  go  home,  for  you  have  done 
me  no  wrong;  and  I  too  have  a  secret  which  you 
must  share  with  me  —  a  secret  which,  if  known,  would 
bring  sorrow  and  strife  to  all  the  lands  about  us :  as 
it  is,  desolation  must  reign  triumphant."  * 

The  sternness  of  his  manner,  and  the  terrible  fore- 
bodings awakened  by  his  words,  caused  "a  momentary 
hesitation  on  the  part  of  Rosalie ;  but  the  promptings 
of  love,  and  the  consciousness  that  he  possessed  her 
secret,  determined  her,  and  she  answered,  — 

"I  am  vours  from  henceforth.  Your  secrets  are 
mine,  and  I  have  never  broken  my  faith  but  once,  and 
that  was  for  your  sake." 

"You  see  this  little  village,  with  its  many  roofs 
rising  above  the  surrounding  orchards,  its  little  chapel, 
its  well-filled  barns,  its  fertile  meadows  with  their 
numerous  dikes,  the  fruits  of  the  ceaseless  toil  of 
many  generations.    You  know  tlie  people  who  dwell 


■;  -.-y- 


I'  -m  I 


130 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


here,  their  quiet  lives,  their  raany  virtues,  their  lavish 
hospitality.  You  know  also  that  they  have  been  sum- 
moned to  meet  to-morrow  at  the  church,  to  learn  the 
pleasure  of  his  majesty  ;  but  you  cannot  imagine  the 
terrible  woe  that  must  follow  the  reading  of  that 
proclamation." 

"  O,  Eugene !  how  sad  and  stern  you  look  I  how 
bitterly  you  speak !  Tell  me  the  worst,  for  I  fear 
many  things  for  my  race.     End  my  suspense  at  once." 

**  Well,  Rosalie,  in  a  year  from  now  the  Indian 
hunter  will  stand  amid  the  ashes  of  consumed  dwell- 
ings, the  ruins  of  chapel  and  fortress ;  nothing  else 
will  be  left  save  scattered  trees,  and  unfeiiced  gardens 
overgrown  with  weeds.  For  your  whole  race  are 
doomed  to  exile,  and  the  ships  now  riding  at  anchor 
below  are  to  carry  them  far  away  into  other  lands, 
where  they  may  no  longer  plot  against  us.  I  must 
help  do  this ;  but  you  must  not  suffer  with  tlie  rest. 
Fly  to-night  to  your  friends  across  the  bay,  and,  if  you 
please,  warn  them  of  their  danger,  but  do  not  reveal 
my  breach  of  duty." 

"  How  can  I  go  to  the  Black  Priest  of  Chignecto, 
and  tell  him  that  I  was  false  to  my  trust,  that  I  owe 
my  safety  to  the  love  of  one  of  the  hated  race  he  has 
so  unceasingly  fought  against?  How  can  I  tell  him 
that  I  knew  of  the  terrible  doom  that  awaits  my 
people,  yet  would  not  save  them  ?  No !  I  go  also ;  if 
I  may  not  save,  I  will  suffer  with  them." 

"You  shall  not  suffer,  darling,  for  you  shall  go 
with  me  to  the  southward,  where  the  summer  is 
longer,  and  the  winter  less  severe.  There  my  love 
shall  repay  you  for  the  love  of  the  friends  you  leave 


DESOLATION. 


131 


wish 
sum- 
n  the 
e  the 
that 

how 
[  fear 


>> 


)nce. 

ndian 

dwell- 

g  else 

irdens 

;e   are 

inchor 

lands, 

'.  must 

e  rest, 
if  you 
reveal 

jnecto, 
I  owe 
le  has 
1  him 

its  my 
so;  if 

lall  go 
mer  is 
ly  love 
leave 


behind;    my  strong  arm   shall  shelter  you  from  all 
evil." 

And  Rosalie,  heart-snck  and  weaiy  with  grief,  gazed 
into  his  eyes,  and  saw  them  dimmed  by  his  sympathy 
with  her  own  deep  sorrow,  and  softly  murmured, 
"  Be  it  so,  Eugene ;  but,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  be 
true  and  kind  to  me,  for  without  you  I  am  alone  on 
earth." 

Led  on  by  his  strong  love,  he  promised  never  to 
desert  her,  saying,  "  As  I  am  true  and  kind  to  you, 
love,  so  may  the  mercy  of  God  be  shown  to  me  on 
earth,  and  at  the  last  day." 

A  voice  near  them  said,  sternly,  "  Remember ! " 
and  turning,  Rosalie  saw  near  them  the  form  of  her 
nurse  Ulalie. 

"  Remember  your  oath,  chief  of  the  AnglasJieowe^ 
and  be  kind  to  her  who  has  thus  deserted  her  friends 
and  her  race.  The  old  nurse  Ulalie  will  not  see  the 
Rose  of  Chignecto  wither  away  because  the  sun  of  her 
life  shines  no  longer  upon  her,  for  she  ever  remembers 
the  brave  who  sleeps  at  St.  Jean,  and  the  desolation 
liis  death  brought  to  her  existence.  Ulalie  was  lonely 
at  Chignecto,  because  the  Black  Robe  and  the  chief 
of  the  Abenaqui  were  upon  the  war-path,  and  her 
foster-boy  with  them  ;  and  so  she  took  her  canoe,  and 
sought  her  darling.  She  will  carry  back  to  Du  Thet 
the  news  of  the  fate  that  awaits  his  people,  and  the 
adieus  of  the  child  who  leaves  him." 

Thomcliffe  spoke  in  a  low  tone  to  Rosalie,  who  in- 
formed him  that  the  intiuder  w;  her  faithful  nurse,  of 
whom  he  had  heard  her  speak  ;  and  he  turned  to  her, 
and  said,  "  Ulalie,  you  have  taken  care  of  Rosalie  for 


■r? 


i 


132 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


m 


many  years,  and  now  sh^  leaves  you  forever ;  but  I 
would  repay  you  somewhat  for  your  care  and  kind- 
ness to  the  treasure  I  take  from  you."  And  he  took 
from  his  bosom  a  heavy  purse. 

"Ulalie  desires  none  of  your  gold;  she  has  done 
but  what  her  love  prompted,  and  her  duty  pointed  out. 
The  child  she  nourished  has  grieved  hcr  by  her  will- 
ingness to  betray  her  trust,  to  desert  her  friends  in 
their  sorrow  ;  but  she  will  ever  have  the  good  wishes 
of  Ulalie  for  her  welfare." 

Stepping  forward,  she  kissed  Rosalie,  and  then 
turned  to  ThornclifFe,  almost  fiercely  :  "  And  to  you, 
leader  of  the  heretic  bands,  who  desolate  our  country, 
Ulalie  gives  this  warning.  Be  kind  to  the  bird  you 
have  taken  from  its  nest,  lest  the  rapier  of  the  Black 
Robe,  the  teeth  of  the  White  Bear,  or  the  rifle  of 
Hubert  De  Courcy,  visit  upon  you  the  vengeance  you 
deserve  if  you  are  false  to  her." 

"  If  I  am  false  to  her,  let  it  be  as  you  wish  with  me ; 
and  may  my  sword  shiver  before  their  onset,"  said 
Thorncliffe,  calmly. 

Ulalie  turned  and  glided  down  the  path ;  they  fol- 
lowed. On  the  Seach  lay  her  light  canoe,  the  white 
sail  still  flapping  in  the  favoring  breeze.  She  launched 
it,  and  seated  herself  in  the  afl:er  part,  a  light  paddle 
in  her  hand.  She  gave  to  Rosalie  a  last  fond  look,  to 
Thorncliffe  a  stately  bend  of  the  head,  and  the  light 
bark  sped  on  its  way  to  the  northward ;  but  ere  she 
was  enveloped  in  darkness,  there  came  back  one  word 
of  warning  or  fondness,  which,  Rosalie  never  knew, 
but  it  haunted  Thorncliffe  to  the  day  of  his  death. 

Through  the  shadows  of  night,  the  darker  gloom  of 


tMUM 


y    i  ■■.,.■•.. :', 


DESOLATION. 


133 


but  I 
kind- 
took 

done 
d  out. 
:  will- 
ids  in 
.vishes 


the  shading  trees,  above  the  ripple  of  the  waves,  and 
the  rush  of  the  gliding  canoe,  he  heard  it ;  not  loudly 
or  menacingly  spoken ;  but  calmly,  yet  warningly,  it 
rose  above  all  other  sounds,  the  single  word,  "  Re- 
member I  " 

They  walked  back  in  silence  to  the  house,  and  parted, 
as  lovers  do,  at  the  door-way ;  and  Rosalie,  on  enter- 
ing, found  that  all  had  retired  for  the  night.  She 
sought  her  couch,  and  wept  long  and  silently,  until  at 
last  she  fell  asleep,  nor  awoke  until  the  pleasant  voice 
of  Christine  broke  her  deep  slumbers, 

"  Come,  Rosalie,  get  up ;  your  breakfast  has  been 
waiting  an  hour  or  more.  Why,  what  is  the  matter 
with  your  eyes?  You  look  as  if  you  had  been  crying 
all  night.  Have  you  quarrelled  with  the  young  Eng- 
lishman?" 

"  O,  no !  nothing  of  that  sort,  only  I  was  a  little 
low-spirited  last  night ;  that  is  all,"  said  Rosalie,  as 
calmly  and  cheerfully  as  she  could  under  the  circum- 
stances ;  and  dressing,  she  went  down  stairs,  and  seat- 
ing herself  at  the  table,  tried  to  eat.  She  succeeded 
but  poorly,  however,  .for  she  remembered  how  soon 
the  happy  family  around  her  must  be  torn  from  the 
old  homestead,  and  borne  over  the  cold  sea  to  a  foreign 
land ;  and  again  the  tears  started  to  her  eyes. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  the  girl?"  said  old 
Jacques,  who  came  in  just  then. 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Christine,  "  but  I  am 
afraid  Lieutenant  Thorncliffe  was  unkind  last  night, 
and  that  they  have  quarrelled ;  but,  Rosalie,  never 
mind ;  all  lovers  quarrel,  and  it  will  all  come  out  right 
in  the  end.     Come,  ma  ckere,  let  us  go  up  stairs,  and 


.:  •■  1' 


lm\ 


134 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


get  ready  to  go  down  to  the  chapel.  They  will  not 
allow  us  girls  and  women  within,  but  when  the  men 
have  heard  the  proclamation,  they  will  tell  us  coming 
home." 

Rosalie  was  in  agony  all  that  day,  while  Christine 
braided  her  dark  tresses,  and  arranged  the  ribbons  on 
her  holiday  cap ;  while  going  down  the  road  to  the 
chapel,  in  company  with  Christine  and  her  admirer, 
Fidele  ;  while  waiting  the  coming  of  the  troops,  whose 
drums  were  already  sounding  as  the  men  marched  up 
from  the  landing. 

As  they  drew  near,  Rosalie  saw  the  tall  form  of 
Colonel  Winslow,  who  carried  in  his  hand  the  procla- 
mation, with  its  heavy  seals  ;  and  in  the  array  marched 
Thornclifte,  with  many  another  gallant  officer ;  but  to 
the  eyes  of  Rosalie,  commandant  and  subaltern  were 
objects  of  pity. 

For  thouj.h  they  strode  past  in  all  the  gorgeousness 
of  their  sh»  w  y  uniforms,  the  pallor  of  their  cheeks,  and 
their  compressed  lips,  showed  that  they  realized  that 
they  had  a  painful  duty  to  perform,  which  was  little 
likely  to  add  to  their  renown,  or  to  gain  the  applause 
of  succeeding  ages. 

A  writer  whose  success  I  may  not  hope  for,  has 
painted  the  scenes  that  followed  —  the  closing  of  the 
heavy  portal ;  the  reading  of  that  terrible  mandate ;  the 
grief,  despair,  and  fruitless  rage  which  harrowed  the 
simple  hearts  of  that  band  of  brothers,  fathers,  hus- 
'bands  and  sons,  imprisoned  in  the  old,  familiar  chapel, 
from  whose  doors  they  were  no  more  to  depart,  until 
they  went  down  to  the  ships,  sent  to  bear  them  away 
forever  from  the  pleasant  scenes  of  dear  old  Acadia. 


DESOLATION. 


135 


ill  not 
e  men 
•oming 

iristine 
)ons  on 
to  the 
dmher, 
,  whose 
ched  up 

form  of 
;  procla- 
marched 
•;  but  to 
ern  were 


And  he  has  written  in  thrilling,  sorrowful  numbers  of 
the  grief  that  filled  the  houses,  tenanted  only  by  ago- 
nized women  and  helpless  children  ;  of  the  departure 
of  the  exiles,  the  embarkation  of  the  men  in  separate 
vessels,  and  the  final  sailing  of  the  fleet,  bearing  a  na- 
tion into  exile. 

I  will  not,  therefore,  reader,  attempt  to  recite  a  tale 
so  well  sung  by  one  whose  songs  are  as  "  household 
words "  in  our  midst,  but  will  only  say  that  Rosalie 
partook  of  the  sorrow  that  crushed  so  many  hearts 
during  the  dreary  days  that  followed,  and  that  at  last, 
by  a  special  order,  she  was  placed  on  board  the  good 
transport  Echo,  and  was  met  at  the  gangway  by 
Lieutenant  ThornclifTe,  from  whom  the  order  had 
emanated. 

He  had  been  enabled  to  procure  her  a  place  in  the 
cabin,  and  her  lot  was  much  more  pleasant  than  that 
of  the  rest,  who  were  huddled  together  on  deck  and  in 
the  hold  like  sheep,  together  with  their  few  movables. 
She  was  not  able  to  find  Christine,  but  learned  that 
she  had  embarked  on  a  smaller  vessel,  the  Arrow, 
which  lay  near  them. 

The  Arrow  sailed  that  evening,  and  as  it  afterwards 
transpired,  was  seized  by  the  Acadians  on  board,  who 
killed  a  few  of  the  guard,  then,  landing  the  crew 
and  surviving  soldiers,  crossed  over  to  the  New  Bruns- 
wick side,  and  left  the  ship  in  an  unfrequented  harbor. 
They  separated  there,  and  several  families  crossed  the 
strait  and  settled  in  St.  Jean.  Among  these  was  the 
family  of  Jacques  Gallant,  who  thus  escaped  the  gen- 
eral fate  of  their  hapless  neighbors.  ^    ' 

The  next  day  the  Echo  completed  her  lading  and 


136 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


sailed  slowly  down  the  bay,  the  light  breeze  scarcely 
filling  her  sails.  Heart-rending  was  the  grief  of  her 
passengers  as  they  saw  the  old,  familiar  places  fading 
away  in  the  distance.  But  they  knew  that  the  inter- 
vening tree  tops  did  not  shut  from  their  sight  the 
homes  of  their  childhood,  for  they  had  seen  the  mid- 
night heavens  red  with  the  glare  of  their  mighty  con- 
flagration, the  noonday  air  foul  with  columns  of 
rising  smoke.  Finally  the  last  headland  grew  dim 
in  the  distance,  and  they  rose  and  fell  on  the  billows 
of  the  great  bay. 

The  moon  arose,  and  at  the  door  of  his  cabin  stood 
Thorncliffe,  by  the  side  of  Rosalie,  whose  tears  had 
ceased  to  flow,  for  grief  had  exhausted  its  fountains  of 
bitter  waters.  He  spoke  to  her  of  his  presence,  of  his 
love,  and  the  protection  he  would  give  her  in  all  time 
of  her  need,  until  her  eyes  grew  brighter,  something  of 
the  old  happy  look  coming  back  to  her  face,  and  then 
they  communed  with  each  other,  talking  of  many 
things,  until  the  waning  moon  warned  them  that  they 
must  soon  retire,  if  they  would  seek  rest  before  her 
beams  were  extinguished. 

As  Thorncliflie  rose  to  go  to  his  cabin,  Rosalie  seized 
his  arm,  and  pointing  to  the  east,  said,  "  Look !  " 

Just  above  the  level  horizon,  from  behind  a  small 
cloud  rose  a  bright  star,  even  as  the  moon  was  sinking 
in  the  west ;  and  Rosalie  said,  "  Thousands  of  years 
ago,  the  disciples  of  a  mighty  sage,*  whose  teachings 
were  for  ages  the  boasted  lore  of  Persia  and  scores  of 
kingdoms  beside,  gave  to  him  a  name  which  signified 
"  The  Living  Star,"  because  to  them  he  was  the  em- 

♦  Zoroaster. 


'!    '     '    :  I'' 


DESOLATION. 


137 


'•f'i 


carcely 
of  her 

fading 
e  inter- 
3-ht  the 
he  mid- 
tity  con- 
mns  of 
•ew  dim 

billows 

bin  stood 
;ears  had 
ntains  of 
.ce,  of  his 
11  all  time 
lething  of 
and  then 
of  many 
that  they 
Defore  her 

alie  seized 

ok  1 " 

id  a  small 
as  sinking 
s  of  years 

teachings 
1  scores  of 
li  signified 

s  the  em- 


hodiment  of  all  that  was  wise  and  good ;  because 
v/ithout  him  all  nature  was  without  an  expounder  of 
her  mysteries,  and  the  night  of  ignorance  and  sorrow 
was  gloomy  and  rayless. 

"  I,  like  them,  am  involved  in  a  terrible  night  of 
sorrow  and  hopeless  despair,  save  for  you,  who  are  the 
living'  star  that  must  dissipate  its  gloom."  And  Thorn- 
cliffe  vowed,  as  oft  before,  that  he  would  never  fail  her  ; 
and  rising,  they  parted  for  the  night,  while  the  moon's 
dying  beams  fell  on  the  blue  sea,  the  white  sails  of 
ships,  and  the  smoking  ruins  and  masterless  herds  of 
that  once  beautiful  and  happy  land,  which  the  cruelty 
of  man  had  made  a  desolation. 

* 

( 


% 


t*^^._ 


138 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


INFELIX  VICTOR. 


.■-%fcv 


I 


PROUDLY  home  came  Du  Thet  and  his  warriors 
from  the  war-path,  bringing  with  them  the  scalps 
and  weapons  of  the  slain,  the  ransom  of  those  they 
had  taken  alive.  Though  he  had  been  unable  to 
cope  with  the  whole  force  of  the  enemy,  still  he  had 
cut  off  many  valuable  officers  and  brave  men,  and 
avenged  the  injuries  inflicted  on  his  hapless  country- 
men ;  and,  on  the  whole,  he  felt  satisfied  with  the 
results  of  his  expedition. 

As  they  left  their  canoes  near  the  encampment  of 
the  tribe,  Ulalie  stood  on  the  bank  to  receive  them,  her 
European  garments  laid  aside,  her  face  painted,  as  if 
mourning  for  a  friend.  Behind  her  stood  a  group  of 
whites  of  all  sexes  and  ages,  in  whom  Du  Thet  im- 
mediately recognized  near  neighbors  and  familiar 
friends.  Around  lay  their  little  store  of  movables 
piled  up  outside  of  within  the  lodges  of  their  Indian 
protectors ;  and  the  oldest,  stepping  forward,  told  Du 
Thet  of  the  sad  events  of  the  past  two  weeks  —  how 
the  habitants  of  Chignecto  would  not  assemble  as  they 
were  ordered  to  do,  remembering  the  events  of  the 
years  before,  and  dreading  some  new  treachery  of  the 
English  ;  of  the  burning  of  their  houses  and  barns  by 
the  soldiery,  who  shot  and  stabbed  the  innocent  sheep 


INFELIX   VICTOR. 


139 


and  gentle  cattle,  which  came  to  them  for  the  food  and 
care  their  masters  could  not  give  them  ;  of  the  swift 
pursuit,  through  forest  and  on  the  rivers,  after  the 
flying  families,  who  were  too  often  so  encumbered 
with  the  sick  and  helpless,  that  they  were  unable  to 
escape,  or  resist  the  parties  sent  out  on  all  sides  to 
capture  them ;  of  the  useless  resistance  of  a  few 
desperate  men,  who,  seeing  the  fruits  of  years  of 
toil  gone  forever,  cared  little  for  life,  if  only  they 
might  first  send  down  to  their  eternal  doom  a  few 
of  the  heretics,  whose  cniel  hands  had  given  back  to 
the  forest  the  acres  wrested  from  it  by  the  privations 
and  toil  of  many  generations ;  of  the  terrible  ret- 
ribution which  followed  all  such  resistance  —  the 
desperate  strife,  where  no  quarter  was  granted  to 
the  vanquished. 

Then  he  told  of  the  news  brought  by  Ulalie ;  how 
her  words  of  warning  had  placed  many  on  their 
guard,  and  her  knowledge  of  the  country  had  found 
them  a  safe  retreat  in  the  secluded  ravines  of  the 
highlands,  and  the  obscurity  of  pathless  copses.  And 
she,  stepping  forward,  said, — 

"Many  moons  have  risen  and  set,  many  times  have 
the  trees  budded  and  shed  their  withered  leaves,  since 
the  Black  Robe  placed  in  the  -care  of  Ulalie  two 
children.  One  stands  before  the  good  father  a 
strong  hunter  and  a  brave  warrior ;  but  his  days 
must  be  saddened  by  grief,  for  the  maiden  he  loves 
has  been  borne  far  away  over  the  great  waters.  The 
other  grew  in  beauty  and  wisdom,  and  was  trusted  as« 
none  among  our  nation  are  trusted,  for  our  wise  men 
have  taught  us  that  a  woman  may  not  be  a  spy ;  for, 


tw^ 


140 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


say  they,  '  Though  riches  may  not  corrupt,  love  may 
conquer  her,  and  pity  hinder  her  purpose/  And 
even  thus  hath  it  been  with  her,  for  the  love  of  a  war- 
chief  of  the  Anglasheowc  has  won  her,  and  Ulalie 
bears  her  last  adieu  to  him  who  bore  her,  from  the 
captured  city  of  the  king,  to  the  arms  of  Ulalie. 

"  Her  work  is  done,  and  she  returns  to  the  garb 
and  lodges  of  her  race,  to  keep  the  wigv/am,  and 
prepare  the  food  of  her  relative,  the  White  Bear. 
There  the  Black  Robe  will  always  be  welcome, 
unless  he  chooses  to  forsake  the  lodges  of  the  Abena- 
qui,  and  return  to  the  home  of  his  childhood,  across 
the  great  ocean." 

Hubert  stood  leaning  against  a  tree,  in  an  agony  of 
grief.  Du  Thet's  cheeks  were  as  pale  as  if  life  had 
expired  within  him.  L'Our  Blanc  raised  his  keen 
axQ,  and,  with  the  war-cry  of  his  race,  lopped  a  huge 
limb  from  the  nearest  tree ;  then  stood  silent  and 
motionless,  his  large  eyes  glowing  like  coals  of  lire. 

"  The  war-chief  is  right,"  said  Du  Thet,  waking 
from  his  reverie  ;  "  women  may  weep,  but  men  should 
avenge.  Houses  and  lands  are  gone  from  us,  but  the 
forest  shall  cover  our  lodges  and  give  us  flesh  and 
fire ;  the  rivers  and  seas  shall  give  of  their  abundance, 
and  our  good  rifles  shall  sustain  our  lives  and  avenge 
our  wrongs." 

Thus  it  was  that  Du  Thet  found  his  triumph 
changed  into  mourning,  his  gladness  into  sorrow,  his 
plans,  which  had  received  the  thought  of  a  lifetime, 
Torever  brought  to  nought.  Nothing  was  left  him 
now  but  vengeance  ;  and  this,  during  the  years  which 
followed,  he  sought  with  unwearied  energy. 


INFELIX    VICTOR. 


141 


After  the  departure  of  the  French  fugitives,  who 
sought  new  homes  in  Canada  and  the  adjacent 
ishmds,  he  and  Hubert,  in  company  with  L'Our 
Blanc,  ranged  through  the  peninsula,  attacking  the 
scattering  settlements,  and  stirring  up  the  savages  to 
incessant  warfare,  spending  the  winter  in  an  Indian 
lodge,  on  the  banks  of  the  Shubenacadie. 

Ulalie  took  care  of  their  domestic  wants,  and  Du 
Thet  found  time,  during  the  long  weeks  of  cold 
weather,  to  teach  the  Indians  many  things  pertaining 
to  their  spiritual  as  well  as  temporal  welfare  ;  for  the 
class  of  missionaries  to  which  he  belonged  were  none 
the  less  desirous  of  the  conversion  of  the  heathen  around 
them  because  they  engaged  in  political  intrigues,  and 
led  bands  of  warriors  to  battle.  He  saw  in  the 
dominion  of  France  the  triumph  of  a  race  of  Catholic 
faitli,  who  would  encourage  and  strengthen  the  prog- 
ress of  what  he  believed  to  be  true  Christianity  ;  in  the 
success  of  the  English,  another  terrible  blow  to  the 
already  waning  power  of  "  Christ's  viceregent  on 
earth." 

Proud  and  fearless  himself,  he  loved  to  lead  others 
to  dangerous  enterprises  ;  ambitious  of  fame,  he  loved 
to  mingle  in  the  exciting  contest  of  opposing  states- 
men ;  yearning  to  know  more  than  earth's  sons  are 
permitted  to  learn,  he  had  ransacked  the  learning 
of  ancient  mystics,  and  sought  out  new  discoveries  by 
his  own  daring  and  genius.  But  all  these  things  he 
had  concentred  on  one  point  to  advance  the  interests 
and  glory  of  his  own  faith  and  country. 

For  this  he  had  faced  death  a  thousand  times  in  all 
its  forms ;  for  this  he  had  said  farewell  to  the  hope  of 


i 


■v^-. 


II 


142 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


earthly  love,  and  joys  of  paternity  ;  for  this  he  had,  as 
he  believed,  risked  his  soul's  salvation,  by  seeking 
knowledge  of  things  forbidden,  by  means  unholy,  of 
intelligences  unseen  and  devilish.  And  now  all  had 
failed ;  and  slowly,  but  surely,  he  saw  the  sovereignty 
of  France  fading  from  the  continent,  where  it  had  held 
almost  undisputed  sway  for  a  century  or  more. 

He  had  seen  one  of  her  fairest  colonies  depopulat- 
ed ;  one  of  her  strongest  citadels  captured ;  enormous 
armadas  shattered  by  tempests ;  their  crews,  and  the 
armies  they  bore  across  the  seas,  decimated  by  pesti- 
lence. In  addition  to  these  things,  the  loss  of  Rosalie 
fell  heavily  upon  him,  heightened  by  the  forebodings 
of  her  Indian  nurse ;  for  Ulalie,  as  for  many  years 
past,  was  subject  to  those  strange  trances,  in  which 
the  intelligence  seems  to  expand,  while  the  senses  and 
volition  lie  in  a  torpor  more  or  less  complete.  Her 
influence  among  her  tribe  was  great,  for  they  looked 
upon  her  as  the  especial  favorite  of  the  Great  Spirit ; 
and,  indeed,  on  several  occasions  she  had  prescribed 
for  the  sick,  and  foretold  approaching  events,  in  a 
manner  partaking  of  the  marvellous,  even  to  Du 
Thet,  and  altogether  incomprehensible  to  the  simple 
Abenaquis. 

One  night,  as  they  sat  around  the  fire,  Ulalie  seemed 
deeply  abstracted,  and  became  violently  agitated,  as 
if  witnessing  some  sorrowful  or  horrible  event,  ex- 
claiming, "  Poor  Rosalie  ! "  "  Poor  child  !  "  until  Du 
Thet  asked  her  why  she  spoke  thus. 

*'  I  see  her,"  she  said ;  and  then  he  saw  that  she 
spoke  as  one  who  talks  in  her  sleep  ;  in  low,  plaintive 
tones,  as  if  the  soul  were  loath  to  express  itself,  save 


» 


INFELIX   VICTOR. 


143 


.d,  as 
iking 

iy,  of 

I  had 
jignty 
dheld 


through  the  more  subtile  channels  of  thought  and  in- 
fluence. 
"Whom  do  you  see,  and  where?" 
"  I  see  Rosalie,  worn  and  weary  with  grief  and  neg- 
lect; and  she  is  witnessing,  from  the  snow-drifted 
streets,  the  nuptials  of  the  man  whose  love  drew  her 
from  friends  and  home,  to  a  land  of  strange  faces  and 
foreign  speech,  only  to  betray  and  desert  the  simple 
girl,  who  made  it  the  treasure  of  her  life  happiness. 

"  She  sees  through  the  unshaded  windows  the  beau- 
tiful pair,  as  they  stand  before  the  priest ;  she  can  see 
their  lips  move  as  they  vow  to  be  true  to  each  other, 
and  almost  hear  the  words  of  the  young  war-chief  as 
he  repeats  to  another  the  vows  he  broke  to  her. 

"  The  ceremony  is  over ;  the  festivity  begins ;  the 
air  is  filled  with  mirth  and  music,  and  the  cadence  of 
tripping  feet ;  but  she  stands  without,  weak  and  faint 
with  sorrow,  despairing  of  happiness,  weary  of  life, 
dreading  the  future. 

"  But  Ulalie  sees  the  veil  lifted  from  the  events  which 
are  to  follow,  and  her  eyes  rest  on  scenes  new  and 
strange  to  her  —  a  city,  with  huge  walls  of  earth  and 
stone,  above  whose  bastions  wave  the  lilies  of  France 
amid  the  smoke  and  din  of  battle  ;  and  around  it  stand 
the  white  tents  of  the  English,  their  batteries  grim 
with  cannon. 

"  And  between  them,  men  meet  in  deadly  combat, 
hilt  to  hilt  and  breast  to  breast ;  the  air  echoes  with 
their  hoarse  hurrahs,  the  shouts  of  the  French  infan- 
try, the  war-whoop  of  the  Abenaquis.  Death  reaps  a 
rich  harvest ;  but  the  grim  king  gathers  a  predestined 
offering,  for  there  the  avenger  meets  his  victim  at  last, 


^ 


144 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


and  the  strong  arm  of  death  rights  the  injury  done 
years  before  to  a  helpless  woman.  He  has  been  sought 
long  and  vainly,  but  the  time  has  come  at  last." 

Then  she  spoke  vaguely  of  ruined  hopes  and  disap- 
pointed expectations ;  of  weary  waiting,  and  the  long- 
ings of  a  loving  heart  for  the  coming  of  its  idol ;  the 
sweetness  of  unexpected  fulfilment  of  long-cherished 
hopes :  and  as  she  spoke  the  name  of  Cubenic,  they 
doubted  not  that  she  communed  with  the  spirit  of  her 
lost  lover. 

Then  she  slept  long  and  heavily,  and,  when  she 
awoke,  knew  nothing  of  what  she  had  said  or  seen, 
save  that  she  had  had  a  sweet  sleep,  and  pleasant 
dreams  which  she  could  not  recall.  But  her  vision  of 
Rosalie  sank  deeply  into  the  hearts  of  Hubert  and 
Du  Thet,  and  anxiously  they  sought  news  of  her,  but 
found  none. 

Through  that  long  winter  they  hunted,  and  pre- 
pared for  the  coming  summer,  drying  deer's  meat  and 
making  pemmican  to  carry  on  the  war-path,  prepar- 
ing deer-skins  for  the  making  of  hunting-shirts  and 
leggir'^s,  that  should  bear  the  sharp  points  of  thorns 
and  the  scraping  of  flinty  crags,  in  the  fierce  pursuit  or 
headlong  retreat  without  harm  to  the  wearer ;  while 
Ulalie  adorned  their  moccasons  with  gay  beads  and 
porcupine  quills,  in  rare  patterns  and  many  colors. 

By  day  they  sometimes  chased  the  huge  moose,  or 
tracked  the  wolf  to  his  covert,  or  again  drew  the  trout 
and  silvery  smelt  through  holes  cut  in  the  hard,  thick 
ice ;  while,  by  the  light  of  resinous  torches  in  the  long 
evenings,  they  prepared  for  the  next  day's  hunt,  or  the 
next  year's  expedition,  w^hiling  away  the  hours  with 


INFELIX    VICTOR. 


H5 


stories  of  love,  war,  and  mystery,  or  listening  to  the 
prayers  and  teachings  of  Du  Thet.  Again,  when  the 
ice  became  smooth  and  glassy,  they  sped  on  swift 
skates  over  the  miles  of  river  and  lake  that  lay  be- 
tween them  and  other  camps,  and  talked  with  the 
warriors  about  the  grand  foray  of  the  coming  summer. 
Sometimes  they  would  meet  at  designated  places,  and 
have  a  grand  hunt,  surrounding  hundreds  of  acres  of 
woodland  with  a  living  ring  of  savage  huntsmen,  and 
returning  laden  with  food  and  peltries. 

At  last  the  summer  came,  and  Du  Thet  summoned 
the  Abenaquis  from  all  he  surrounding  country  to 
meet  him,  in  the  Basin  of  Minas,  with  their  war-canoes 
and  provisions  for  thirty  days  ;  and  they  came  in  great- 
er numbers  than  they  had  ever  collected  since  the 
tribe  was  shorn  of  its  strength  by  the  deadly  fevers  at 
Chebucto. 

They  met  at  the  site  of  the  ruined  village  of  Grand 
Pr^,  feeding  their  fires  with  the  remnants  of  the  half- 
consumed  buildings  and  fences,  drawing  their  water 
from  the  surrounding  wells,  and  promising  them- 
selves vengeance  for  the  utter  ruin  that  had  overtaken 
their  French  allies  and  neighbors.  Fifty  canoes  were 
stranded  upon  the  beach  :  two  hundred  men  wore  the 
war-paint,  among  them  a  score  or  so  of  Acadians,  who 
wept  as  they  gazed  on  the  ruins  of  their  homes,  and 
vowed  bitterly  that  the  year  should  not  pass  before  an 
English  village  should  be  devoted  to  the  same  fate 
which  had  overtaken  Minas  and  Chignecto. 

At  last  all  was  ready  ;  and  in  the  dim  gray  of  a  sum- 
mer's morning  they  launched  their  canoes,  and  seated 
themselves  therein.     Two  hundred  paddles  dropped 


14^ 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


lightly  into  the  water,  and,  used  with  the  strength  and 
skill  of  two  hundred  strong  men,  sent  the  little  fleet 
rapidly  on  its  way,  headed  by  the  canoe  of  L'Oiir 
Blanc,  distinguished  by  its  size,  the  beauty  of  its  or- 
namentation, and  the  number  of  the  paddles  which 
propelled  it. 

The  good  ship  Argo,  in  which  Jason  and  the  flower 
of  his  country  sailed  in  quest  of  the  Fleece  of  Gold 
over  so  many  unknown  seas,  made  no  more  sensation 
among  the  Hellenes  than  the  landing  of  this  craft  had 
excited  among  the  Abenaquis.  It  measured  nearly 
thirty  feet  in  length,  and  was  of  faultless  model  and 
proportions,  covered  with  bark  from  a  tree  noted  for 
its  size  and  symmetry,  and  left  untouched  for  many 
generations.  Her  inner  sheathing  and  braces  were  of 
perfectly  seasoned  ash,  specially  selected  for  the  pur- 
pose ;  and  the  utmost  skill  of  Ulalie  had  been  exercised 
to  work  the  broad  belt  of  dyed  porcupine  quills  which 
encircled  her,  and  the  stars  that  shone  on  either  prow. 
She  carried  five  warriors  besides  L'Our  Blanc  and  his 
comrades,  Hubert  and  Du  Thet ;  and  eight  paddles  of 
carved  wood  forced  her  through  the  water  when  there 
was  need  of  haste.  The  fancy  of  Hubert  had  named 
her  Rosalie  ;  and  when  he  spoke,  Du  Thet  grimlj^  re- 
joined that  she  should  avenge  her  namesake  :  and  such 
was  her  name  forever  after.  ^ 

Day  by  day  she  led  the  flotilla  up  the  winding 
course  of  the  Shubenacadie  by  banks  now  rocky  and 
surrounded  by  gravelly  shoals,  now  heavily  wooded 
with  huge  pines,  amid  whose  trunks  one  might  deem 
himself  surrounded  by  the  pillars  of  some  holy  cathe- 
dral, or  again  forcing  aside  the  odorous  lilies  and  dense 


iii 


INFELIX    VICTOR. 


M7 


1  and 
fleet 
.'Our 
its  or- 
which 

flower 
Gold 

isation 

ift  had 

nearly 

lei  and 

)ted  for 

f  many 

Arere  of 

he  pur- 

cercised 
which 
prow. 

and  his 
dies  of 

len  there 
named 
iml^  re- 
nd such 

winding 
cky  and 
wooded 
ht  deem 
y  cathe- 
d  dense 


weeds  of  one  of  the  long  chain  of  lakes  through  which 
the  Shubenacadie  pours  its  waters. 

On  the  last  day  of  their  voyage,  a  canoe  containing 
several  men  was  seen  to  dart  from  a  small  island  some 
distance  ahead,  and  of  course  a  chase  ensued. 

L'Our  Blanc  laid  aside  the  calumet  which  he  had 
been  at  the  time  dreamily  smoking,  threw  back  his 
mantle  from  his  muscular  shoulders,  leaving  himself 
bare  to  the  waist,  save  for  the  war-paint  which  covered 
him,  and  called  loudly  to  his  men  not  to  let  the  fugitives 
escape.  Du  Thet  dropped  his  Breviary,  and,  carbine 
in  hand,  stepped  to  the  bows,  where  he,  too,  took  a  pad- 
dle, as  did  Hubert ;  and  soon  the  "  Rosalie  "  was  far 
ahead  of  the  other  canoes,  and  rapidly  gaining  on  the 
chase. 

The  English  scouts  —  for  such  they  evidently  were  — 
exerted  themselves  to  the  utmost  to  escape  their  pur- 
suers, and,  as  the  swift  canoe  drew  nearer,  bent  them- 
selves to  their  task  until  the  light  paddles  seemed  in 
danger  of  breaking.  At  last,  but  a  hundred  yards  of 
water  intervened  between  the  canoes,  and  neither 
appeared  to  gain  on  the  other,  while  tree  and  rock 
seemed  to  fly  past  with  the  rapidity  of  thought.  The 
crew  of  either  craft  worked  with  their  utmost  strength 
silently,  with  quick  but  regular  strokes,  the  sharp 
bows  parting  the  glassy  surface  before,  the  paddles 
churning  it  into  a  wake  of  foaming  ripples  visible  far 
behind. 

An  hour  passed,  and  the  flotilla  was  far  away,  the 

source  of  the  river  at  hand,  a  refuge  for  the  scouts  only 

a  few  miles  distant,  and  Du  Thet  looked  several  times 

wistfully   at   the   carbine   which    stood    beside    him, 

IQ 


148 


TWICE   TAKEN, 


glancing  at  the  distance  that  lay  between  him  and  the 
chase. 

Gradually  this  had  been  lessening ;  for  nothing  but 
the  consciousness  that  their  lives  depended  on  their  ov/n 
efforts  had  enabled  the  fugitives  so  long  to  evade  the 
huge  war-canoe  and  her  stalwart  crew  ;  and  now  scarce 
eighty  yards  lay  between  the  Jesuit  and  the  scouts. 
He  dropped  his  paddle  and  seized  his  carbine ;  the 
Rosalie  .^pidly  dropped  astern;  he  raised  his  piece 
quickly — a  jet  of  flame,  a  little  cloud  of  smoke,  a  report 
echoing  far  away  among  the  mountains. 

The  hindmost  scout  dropped  his  paddle  and  started 
to  his  feet,  reeled,  caught  at  empty  air  with  stiffening 
fingers,  and  fell  headlong  in^o  the  lake,  upsetting  the 
canoe  as  he  did  so.  A  moment  or  two  more,  and  the 
war-club  and  axe  had  done  their  merciless  work ;  and 
the  Rosalie  swept  on  past  an  overturned  canoe,  around 
which  the  paddles  stained  with  blood,  and  caps  rent 
by  the  death-stroke,  told  that  the  White  Bear  of  the 
Abenaquis  had  not  hunted  in  vain. 

But  why  should  I  again  describe  the  events  of  an 
Indian  foray,  or  detail  the  scenes  which  followed  ?  In 
these  days  we  find  much  to  condemn  in  the  deeds  of 
the  French  and  English,  who,  with  their  allies,  the 
various  Indian  tribes,  hunted  each  other  down  like 
wild  beasts,  and  made  their  contests  scenes  of  utter 
extermination.  f 

Suffice  it  to  say,  that  in  those  days,  as  now,  a  little 
town  culled  Dartmouth,  lay  across  the  harbor,  some 
few  leagues  from  the  city  of  Halifax  ;  and  that,  at  ihs 
time  of  which  we  write,  it  contained  many  comfortable 
homes  and  happy  families.     A  company  of  soldiers 


INFELIX   VICTOR. 


149 


and  the 

ling  but 
eir  ov/n 
ade  the 
jv  scarce 

;    scouts. 

ne ;  the 
lis  piece 
,  a  report 

d  started 
stiffening 
;tting  the 
,  and  the 
ork;  and 
>e,  around 
caps  rent 
ar  of  the 

nts  of  an 
wed?  In 
deeds  of 
allies,  the 
down  like 
s  of  utter 


iW,  a 


little 
bor,  some 
hat,  at  the 
mfortable 
f  soldiers 


0 


0 


watched  by  day  and  night  for  the  coming  of  the  Abe- 
naquis,  who  every  summer  left  the  bloody  corpses  of 
their  victims  under  the  very  walls. 

They  had  had  unusual  quiet  for  a  long  time  ;  and  the 
scouts  who  kept  watch  on  the  banks  of  the  Shubena- 
cadie,  and  in  the  adjacent  woods,  had  given  no  warn- 
ing of  coming  evil,  so  careless  was  their  vigil,  and 
fatally  certain  their  sense  of  security.  For,  in  the 
darkness,  the  warriors  of  L'Our  Blanc  glided  through 
the  gloomy  woods  in  single  file,  dimly  seen,  as  the 
shadowy  kings  which  gazed  unvaryingly  on  the  af- 
frighted Macbeth,  until  they  could  see  the  lanterns  of 
the  relief,  as  they  went  their  rounds,  and  hear  the 
drowsy  voice  of  the  sleepy  guard,  as  he  cried,  "  All's 
well,"  for  the  last  time. 

There  was  a  low  rustling  which  some  curious  sen- 
tinel may  have  deemed  the  whispering  of  the  night 
wind  among  the  myriad  leaves  of  the  trees,  but  which 
really  came  from  the  stealthy  approach  of  painted  sav- 
ages, through  the  thick  herbage,  until  a  cordon  of 
armed  men  surrounded  the  doomed  village. 

Then  rose  on  one  side  the  weird  and  solemn  call  of 
an  owl,  rising  three  times  through  the  shadows,  and  a 
few  moments  after  came  the  signal  for  the  attack.  On 
the  north-west  of  the  settlement  stood  Hubert,  carbine 
in  hand ;  and  to  him  Du  Thet  had  given  instructions 
to  fire,  when,  by  the  hooting  of  an  owl,  he  should  in- 
form him  of  the  completion  of  his  arrangements  for  the 
attack. 

He  raised  his  carbine,  and  fired  upon  the  nearest 
sentinel,  who  fell.  A  yell  arose  on  the  still  night  air, 
as  if  the  spirits  of  hell  had  joined  in  chorus  ;  and  then, 


I50 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


all  around  him,  armed  and  crested  warriors  sprang 
from  every  bush  and  tree,  following  Du  Thet,  who, 
s^yord  in  hand,  rushed  on  to  the  assault.  Then  the 
gates  went  down  before  the  axes  of  the  frenzied  Aca- 
dians,  who  that  night  fulfilled  their  vow  ;  for  ere  morn- 
ing dawned  the  little  settlement  was  in  ashes,  with  the 
corses  of  its  defenders  and  inhabitants  lying  amid  the 
dying  embers. 

Vain  was  all  pursuit  of  the  swift  canoes  laden  with 
spoil,  which.,  headed  by  the  Rosalie,  swept  down  the 
string  of  lakes,  and  the  bright  stream  of  the  Shubena- 
cadie.  Du  Thet  remained  in  Acadia  until  late  in 
that  fall,  and  then,  in  company  with  Hubert  and 
L'Our  Blanc,  crossed  the  straits,  to  the  Isle  of  St.  Jean ; 
finding  there  old  friends,  and  the  newly-made  grave  of 
the  lost  Rosalie. 


t!' 


151 


sprang 
t,  who, 
len  the 
ed  Aca- 
e  morn- 
vvith  the 
mid  the 

den  with 
[own  the 
^hubena- 
l  late  in 
bert  and 
St.  Jean ; 
I  grave  of 


CHAPTER    XVII. 


LIFE    SHADOWS. 


A  PRECEDING  chapter  left  Rosalie  on  board 
of  the  transport  Echo,  just  as  the  setting  moon 
gave  to  her  view  for  the  last  time  the  distant  coasts  of 
Acadia,  as  in  the  midnight  gloom  she  parted  from  her 
lover,  seeking  rest  and  happiness  in  forgetful  sleep. 

The  next  morning  found  them  on  the  broad  ocean, 
with  no  land  in  view  ;  and  favorable  winds  drove  them 
swiftly  on  their  way  to  their  destination.  Rosalie 
spent  much  of  her  time  among  her  unfortunate  com- 
panions, and  did  much  to  alleviate  their  sufferings,  as 
she  was  enabled  to  procure  for  the  sick  and  infirm 
many  little  comforts.  Of  course,  most  of  the  remain- 
ing time  was  spent  in  the  society  of  Thorncliffe. 

As  they  sat  one  day  talking,  Rosalie  saw  that  some- 
thing troubled  her  companion,  and  she  said,  "  What 
are  you  thinking  of,  mon  cher?" 

"I  was  trying  to  think  what  I  shall  do  with  you, 
darling,  when  we  arrive." 

"Will  you  not  take  me  to  your  home?"  said  she, 
simply. 

"  Alas !  I  may  not  do  so,  Rosalie  ;  for  since  the  death 
of  my  father's  brother,  who  fell  years  ago  on  the  Isle 
of  St.  Jean,  his  hatred  of  the  French  is  so  great  that 
he  will  have  nothing  to  say  tQ  one  of  your  race." 


'52 


TWICE   TAKEN.. 


mm 


"What  will  become  of  me,  then?  and  how  will 
you  ever  reconcile  him  to  our  union,  Eugene?" 

"  I  hope,  darling,  that  you  will  reconcile  him.  He 
surely  will  not  be  able  to  resist  your  beauty  and  good- 
nesF,  fna  belle^  only  we  must  wait  until  a  favorable 
opportunity.  Until  then  I  will  procure  you  a  lodging 
in  the  city,  and  you  must  be  content  to  trust  me  to 
bring  all  things  right  in  the  end." 

"  How  and  when  was  your  uncle  killed,  Eugene?  " 

"  He  was  the  mate  of  ;  n  ar^  1  schooner  sent  to 
convey  the  French  settlers  a  vay  from  the  Isle  of  St. 
Jean,  and  was  killed,  with  nearly  all  his  party,  by  the 
savages,  but  not  until  he  had  slain  one  of  their  chiefs 
and  several  other  warriors." 

Poor  Rosalie  shuddered  as  she  recognized,  in  the 
words  of  Eugene,  a  description  of  the  death  of  the 
slayer  of  Cubenic ;  and  as  she  thought  of  how  often 
the  tale  had  been  told  her  by  her  Indian  nurse  of  the 
swift  avengers,  the  death  thrust  from  the  Jesuit's 
rapier,  the  crushing  blow  of  L'Cur  Blanc,  before 
which  strong  arm  and  heavy  cutlass  had  been  as 
fragile  reeds,  she  felt  her  cheeks  grow  pale,  her  heart 
almost  cease  its  beatings  ;  for  between  herself  and  the 
fomily  of  tlie  man  she  loved  lay  the  barrier  of  blood 
poured  out  by  violence. 

"I  will  not  tell  him,"  thought  she  to  herself,  " for 
none  of  my  kindred  struck  the  fatal  blow  ;  and  I  dare 
not,  will  not,  lose  the  love  that  is  all  that  is  left  to 
me  now.**  *  / 

"  Eugene,"  said  she,  aloud,  '^  I  know  you  are  right,  and 
it  must  be  as  you  say  ;  but  you  must  try  to  move  your 
father's  heart,  for  I  shall  be  very  lonely  and  heart-sick 
when  I  sit  without  you  in  the  midst  of  that  great  city." 


I    :-; 


LIFE    SHADOWS. 


153 


V  will 

i.    He 

I  good- 

^orable 

edging 

me  to 

ene  r 
sent  to 
[e  of  St. 
I,  by  the 
ir  chiefs 

d,  in  the 
rh  of  the 
ow  often 
se  of  the 
Jesuit's 
ic,  before 
been  as 
ler  heart 
f  and  the 
-  of  blood 


t 


erigl 


Then  they  talked  of  other  things,  basking  in  the 
warm  rays  of  the  waning  sun,  until  Rosalie's  heart 
grew  light  again,  and  her  laughter  sounded  liquid  and 
cheery  as  the  merry  ripple  of  the  waves  against  the 
bows  of  the  swift  bark ;  they  hoped  and  talked  con- 
cerning the  future,  building  castles  in  the  air,  in  which 
their  choicest  treasures  were  to  be  the  love  and  society 
of  each  other ;  and  still  the  vessel  rushed  on,  bearing 
them  to  their  destination,  while  the  stream  of  life  hur- 
ried them  on  to  their  destiny. 

The  sun  set.  As  they  watched  the  gorgeous  hues 
of  his  waning  splendor,  Rosalie  spoke  of  the  Persians, 
who  for  thousands  of  years  had  worshipped  the  retir- 
ing glories  of  the  Giver  of  Good,  the  daily  rising  of 
the  fountain  of  life  and  light ;  and  as  she  spoke  of  the 
myriads  who  had  in  ancient  times  thus  worshipped, 
Thorncliffe  almost  fancied  he  could  see  the  rich  robes 
of  the  kneeling  Parsees,  the  lofty  caps  and  hoary  locks 
of  the  stately  Magi,  almost  hear  the  rattle  of  the  drum, 
the  clash  of  the  cymbal,  the  silvery  lute,  the  low,  deep 
murmurs  of  a  nation  at  prayer. 

As  the  stars  appeared  in  the  azure  dome  above  them, 
she  spoke  of  the  beautiful  banks  of  the  fertile  Nile,  of 
Egypt,  mother  of  nations  and  civilization,  —  how  first, 
there,  men  noted  the  signs  and  constellations  of  the 
planets,  dividing  the  year  into  seasons  and  months, 
and  arranging  with  regularity  the  fit  periods  of  sowing 
and  reaping,  that  men  might  not  labor  in  vain ;  then 
how  there  rose,  among  those  simple  rustics,  men  of 
intellect,  who  sought  more  deeply  into  the  great  se- 
crets of  nature,  who  formed  societies  of  mystics,  to 
which  none  but  the  learned  were  admitted,  and  the 


154 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


knowledge  was  confined  ;  how  in  the  stars  they  found 
a  sympathy  with  earth,  a  chart  of  the  destiny  of 
mortals.  And  Thorncliffe's  heart  warmed  with  the 
wild,  weird  tale  told  so  sweetly  by  the  woman  he  loved, 
until  in  thought  he  seemed  to  see  the  silvery  river,  dark 
with  the  shadows  of  stately  temples  and  stupendous 
mausoleums,  and  bent  over  the  horoscope  with  the 
priests  of  Isis,  or  stood  beneath  the  radiant  heavens 
of  Egypt,  with  the  seeker  of  destiny ;  the  vessel 
which  bore  him  onward,  the  men  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  who  slept  or  watched  around,  were  all  forgot- 
ten, and  he  lived  in  another  age  of  mystery  and  of 
love. 

Until  the  ship's  bell,  striking  the  hour  of  nine,  warned 
them  that  they  must  part,  and  the  lovers,  with  a  last 
pressure  of  the  hand,  a  parting  fond  embrace  with 
words  of  expectation  of  to-morrow's  meeting,  each 
sought  repose  ;  and  sleep  closed  the  weeping  eyes  of 
the  exiles,  the  thin  lids  of  the  sick,  who  tossed  and 
turned  uneasily  in  the  crowded  sick-bay,  gave  happy 
dreams  of  love  to  Rosalie,  whose  little  heart  had  be- 
come heavy  again  with  uncertain  apprehension,  and 
put  an  end,  for  the  time,  to  the  musings  of  Thorncliffe, 
as  to  how  he  should  approach  his  dreaded  parent, — 
while  the  sharp  prow  and  tapering  bowsprit  of  the 
vessel  steadily  pointed  to  the  iron-bound  shores  of  New 
England. 

In  a  few  days  the  voyage  drew  near  its  close,  and 
the  Echo  ran  slowly  between  the  outer  islands  into  the 
harbor,  and  anchored  between  the  castle  and  the  town. 
Some  days  elapsed  before  the  exiles  were  allowed  to 
land  ;  but  before  that  time  Rosalie  had  been  conveyed 


LIFE    SHADOWS. 


^55 


y  found 
tiny  of 
dth  the 
e  loved, 
er,  dark 
pendous 
^ith  the 
heavens 
,e  vessel 
ghteenth 
11  forgot- 
y  and  of 

e,  warned 
ath  a  last 
race  with 

r,  each 
g  eyes  of 
ossed  and 
ive  happy 

had  be- 
lision,  and 
lorncliffe, 

parent,— 
)rit  of  the 
esofNew 

close,  and 
ds  into  the 
I  the  town, 
allowed  to 
conveyed 


to  a  commodious  dwelling-house  in  the  northern  part 
of  the  city. 

Here  she  was  shown  every  attention,  and  would 
have  been  happy,  had  she  not  feared,  too  truly  as  it 
afterwards  transpired,  tlrat  the  father's  hatred  to  anoth- 
er race  would  effect  her  separation  from  Thorncliffe. 

Still,  life  is  not  made  up  of  sorrow  alone,  even  with 
the  most  unhappy  ;  and  how  could  Rosalie,  loving  as 
she  did,  be  unhappy,  when  her  love  was  returned  !  For 
Thorncliffe  did  all  that  he  could  to  make  her  life  pass 
happily,  and  he  spent  many  hours  of  each  day  in  her 
society. 

Together  they  drove  through  the  suburbs  and  into 
the  wood-roads  hung  with  many-hued  leaves,  or  rode 
side  by  side  over  the  level  sands  of  distant  beaches. 
Or,  again,  they  walked  by  the  waters  of  the  harbor, 
and  heard  the  rippling  of  its  currents  as  they  broke 
against  sunken  pile  or  gravelly  strand.  Then  they  sat 
in  the  still  moonlight,  at  the  open  lattice,  and  com- 
muned with  each  other  of  many  things,  —  of  the  le- 
gends and  history  of  the  past,  the  events  of  their  own 
days,  the  hopes  of  the  future,  the  more  lasting  joys 
of  the  world  to  come.  Thus  weeks  passed  away, 
pleasurable  as  the  first  fruit  of  the  tree  fatal  to  our 
race,  and,  like  it,  fraught  with  evil  in  its  results  to  a 
beautiful  and  loving  pair  of  mortals. 

For  it  came  to  the  ears  of  the  elder  Thorncliffe,  that 
his  son  had  been  seen  many  times  in  the  society  of 
a  beautiful  Acadienne ;  he  had  satisfied  himself  of 
the  truth  of  the  report,  and  learned  from  the  lady  of 
the  house  at  which  Rosalie  staid,  that  her  expenses 
were  all  paid  by  Eugene. 


'56 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


Angry  and  grieved,  he  called  Eugene  to  a  private 
conference  with  him.  The  tall  lieutenant,  with  a 
feeling  of  fear  somewhat  akin  to  what  he  had  experi- 
enced on  similar  occasions  in  earlier  years,  followed 
his  father  silently  into  the  dimly-lighted  library,  and 
closed  the  door  behind  him. 

The  old  man  gazed  at  him  grimly  and  silently,  and 
then  said,  "  What  is  this,  son  Eugene^  that  I  hear  of 
vou  ?  " 

"  What  have  you  heard,  father?" 

*'  That  the  son  of  Deacon  Thorncliffe  has  imitated 
the  vices  of  the  Old  World,  and  that  he  keeps  a  hired 
mistress  within  a  gun-shot  of  his  father's  house." 

"  It  is  false,  father." 

"  It  is  not  false.  It  is  in  vain  to  add  falsehood  to 
sin.  I  have  seen  the  maiden,  and  have  learned  from 
the  woman  with  whom  she  resides,  that  she  is  sup- 
ported by  you." 

"  That  is  true ;  yet  she  is  not  what  you  suppose 
her  to  be,  but  an  unhappy  maiden,  who  has  left  friends 
and  home  for  love  of  me,  and  whom  I  intend  to  make 
my  wife,  with  your  permission." 

"  Never !  Eugene,  never  with  my  consent !  "  said 
the  elder  Thorncliffe,  sternly  and  coldly.  Then  his 
coldness  gave  way,  and  he  seemed  convulsed  with 
rage,  as  he  said,  "  A  son  of  mine  marry  a  French 
woman !  give  his  hand  and  name  to  one  of  a  hated 
and  treacherous  race,  forgetting  the  barrier  of  blood 
unavenged  that  separates,  the  difference  of  faith  that 
divides  !  No,  Eugene  !  remember  the  words  of  Moses 
imto  Israel :  '  Neither  shalt  thou  make  marriages  with 
them  :  thy  daughter  thou  shalt  not  give  unto  his  son, 


LIFE    SHADOWS. 


^57 


nor  his  daughter  shalt  thou  take  unto  thy  son.  For 
they  will  turn  away  thy  son  from  following  me,  that 
they  may  serve  other  gods :  so  will  the  anger  of  the 
Lord  be  kindled  against  you,  and  destroy  you  utterly.* " 
"  But,  father,  I  have  pledged  to  her  my  honor,  my 
sacred  word,  that  nought  on  earth  should  separate  us ; 
and  if  I  desert  her,  she  is  alone  and  friendless,"  said 
Thorncliffe. 

" '  And  thou  shalt  consume  all  the  people,  wliich  the 
Lord  thy  God  shall  deliver  thee  ;  thine  eye  shall  have 
no  pity  upon  them ;  neither  shalt  thou  serve  their 
gods ;  for  that  will  be  a  snare  unto  thee.' " 

The  solemn  voice  of  the  old  man,  as  he  quoted 
these  stern  teachings  of  the  mighty  prophet  of  Israel 
in  answer,  impressed  Eugene,  even  while  he  was 
shocked  at  the  pitiless  severity  of  his  words ;  still  he 
tried  to  soften  him. 

"  But,  father,  you  will  not  counsel  me  to  do  wrong 
—  to  desert  the  woman  I  love,  so  far  from  home  and 
friends;  she  has  hoped  for  your  love  and  your  con- 
sent to  our  union." 

"  Send  her  to  her  friends,  then  ;  charter  a  vessel,  if 
need  be,  and  I  will  bear  the  expense,  rather  than  see 
you  throw  yourself  away  thus." 

"She  may  never  return  to  her  friends;  she  is  an 
orphan,  and,  when  I  first  knew  her,  was  the  protegee^ 
and  emissary  of  Du  Thet,  the  priest  of  Chignecto, 
and"  — 

"  The  slayer  of  my  brother,"   said   the   old  man, 
sternly,  his    face   pallid    with   horror,    sorrow,   and 
hatred. 
Eugene  tried  to  speak,  to  say  something  that  should 


m 


iHtmtit 


m\ 


158 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


avert  the  coming  storm  that  threatened  so  much  of 
sorrow  and  desolation  to  himself  and  Rosalie  ;  but  the 
announcement  was  new  to  him,  and  he  felt  appalled 
by  the  thought  of  forming  an  alliance  with  one  so 
nearly  connected  with  the  slayer  of  his  uncle. 

At  last  his  father  spoke  :  "  Eugene,  you  may  never 
hope  for  my  consent  to  your  union,  or  for  any  relent- 
ing from  my  settled  purpose.  Na3%  more,  if  I  ever 
learn  that  you  have  continued  your  connection  with 
this  accursed  Catholic,  I  will  disinherit  you,  and  my 
dying  curse  shall  embitter  your  life.  I  have  destined 
you  for  another  orphan,  your  cousin  Helen,  left  father- 
less by  the  wiles  of  that  subtle  and  cruel  Jesuit.  She 
loves  you,  I  know,  and  she  will  bring  you  some 
wealth  ;  if  you  refuse,  mine  shall  be  added  to  it  at 
your  expense.  Give  up  your  French  mistress,  and  in 
the  spring  she  shall  be  sent  to  any  port  she  may 
desire  ;  but  my  son  shall  nev^er  wed  her  with  my  con- 
sent. I  have  finished  ;  our  conference  is  over ; "  and 
with  the  hard,  cold,  gleaming  eye  of  one  whose  pur- 
pose is  settled,  he  left  Eugene  to  himself,  faint  at 
heart,  uncertain,  and  miserable. 

How  the  day  passed  he  never  knew,  for  his  mind 
was  torn  by  conflicting  emotions  and  desires.  Happy 
had  it  been  for  him  had  he  sought  the  Right,  and, 
casting  all  selfish  thoughts  aside,  concluded  to  be  true 
to  himself  and  his  vows  to  the  poor  girl,  who  wondered 
anxiously  that  day  why  he  did  not  come,  as  she  bent 
over  her  task. 

For  the  day  before  she  had  asked  of  ThornclifTe  the 
day  and  hour  of  his  birth,  and  was  now  trying  to  read 
his  fate  by  the  stars,  as  Du  Thet  had  taught  her  in 


MtiuU 


.IFE   SHADOWS. 


^59 


days  gone  by.  And  as  she  concluded  her  task,  she 
looked  pale  and  anxious,  for  the  chart  spoke  of  evil  to 
him  and  to  herself,  in  this  wise :  *'  The  querent  shall 
fall  in  love  for  the  first  time  in  his  27th  year.  He 
shall  be  threatened  with  great  danger,  through  this 
love,  during  his  30th  year.  He  shall  escape  this, 
should  he  prove  true  to  himself  and  to  his  word. 
Should  death  overtake  him  at  this  time,  he  will  fall 
by  violence  and  in  battle." 

She  sat  alone  in  the  twilight,  wearily  and  anxiously 
waiting  to  see  the  lithe  form  of  her  approaching  lover, 
or  to  hear  his  quick  step  on  the  hidden  pavement  be- 
neath ;  but  he  came  not :  and  as  the  shadows  gathered 
and  the  stars  came  out,  one  by  one,  she  still  sat,  wait- 
ing, fearing  many  things,  but  smiling  at  her  fears. 
Then  brightest  of  all  stars,  the  planet  sacred  to  love, 
rose  again  as  she  had  seen  it  arise  from  the  deck  of 
the  fleet  ship,  and  she  said  to  herself,  "  Thus  the  star 
of  my  love  shall  arise  ;  and  its  rays  shall  dissipate  all 
my  sad  memories  of  the  dead  Past,  all  my  fears  for  the 
Future."  The  thought  brought  her  cheerfulness  back 
again  ;  again  she  turned  to  her  task,  and  wrote  steadily 
for  an  hour  longer. 

Then,  folding  the  paper  carefully,  she  said  to  her- 
self, "  I  will  give  this  to  Eugene  when  he  comes 
again ;  but  I  shall  scold  him  a  little  first  for  staying  so 
long  away  from  me ; "  and  she  placed  it  carefully  in 
her  little  desk. 

She  drew  the  curtains  closely,  and,  taking  her 
guitar,  tried  to  play  some  of  the  merry  strains  which 
used  to  sound  over  the  still  surface  of  the  Gaspereau, 
in  her  boating  expeditions  with  Hubert  and  Christine 


m 


i6o 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


long  ago ;  but  they  sounded  harshly,  she  knew  not 
why;  and  she  found  herself  playing  «ad,  low  melodies 
and  solemn  chants. 

She  laid  aside  her  instrument,  and  sang,  wearily 
her  "Ave  Maria,"  repeated  her  "  Pater  Noster "  as 
one  who  feels  as  if  the  joys  and  happiness  of  life 
are  slowly,  but  surely,  departing;  and  fell  asleep,  to 
dream  of  happy  meetings  with  her  lover,  and  rest  from 
jealous  fears,  or  dread  of  separation,  to  awaken  again 
to  find  that  her  happiness  had  forever  departed.  On 
her  table  lay  a  note,  written  in  a  bold,  steady  hand. 

"  Boston,  May  i6,  1756. 
Miss  Rosalie  De  Courcy  : 

M :  Your  connection  with  my  son  must  cease 

to-day,  as  I  have  long  since  decided  that  he  must 
marry  a  daughter  of  my  brother,  who  fell  at  Port  la 
Joie,  by  the  hands  of  the  Jesuit  Du  Thet  or  some  of 
his  band. 

You  will  take  the  money  accompanying  this,  for 
your  expenses  until  spring,  when  a  vessel  will  convey 
you  to  your  friends. 

I  remain,  respectfully  yours, 

Thomas  Thorncliffe." 


e"- 


i6i 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


TRACADIE. 


THE  room  seemed  to  darken,  the  surrounding  ob- 
jects to  become  distorted  and  indistinct,  and  Ro- 
salie felt  her  limbs  and  face  grow  cold  as  her  life-blood 
ebbed  swiftly  back  to  her  heart  —  felt  the  terrible  pres- 
sure on  her  tortured  brain ;  and  then,  God  in  mercy 
gave  her  for  a  time  to  drink  of  the  waters  of  Lethe, 
for  she  became  unconscious. 

When  she  came  to  herself,  she  was  lying  on  her 
bed,  and  over  her  bent  Mrs.  Forster,  her  kind  land- 
lady ;  while  the  air  was  heavy  with  the  odor  of  cam- 
phor, and  she  felt  her  dark  tresses  and  throbbing  tem- 
ples grow  wet  and  cool  with  soothinj"  lotions.  She 
seemed  bewildered  a  few  moments,  looked  vaguely 
around  the  room  until  her  eyes  rested  upon  the  fatal 
note ;  and  then  she  remembered  all,  bursting  into  a 
paroxysm  of  tears. 

Mrs.  Forster  drew  Rosalie  gently  to  her,  and,  seating 
herself,  held  her  to  her  b*-  d,  motherly  breast,  until 
she  was  calmer ;  and  then  questioned  her  concerning 
the  cause  of  her  trouble. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Rosalie?"  said  she,  kindly. 

"  Read  this  note,  and  you  will  know."  .  Mrs.  Fors- 
ter read  it,  slowly  and  steadily,  but  with  a  gleam 
of  honest  indignation   in   her  eyes,  that  brightened 


1 62 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


as  she  read  ;  and  as  she  laid  it  aside,  she  broke  out  into 
speech. 

"  It's  rascally  !  it's  mean  !  it's  cruel !  to  treat  you  so, 
poor  child  ;  and  I'd  never  have  believed  it  of  Deacon 
Thorncliffe  in  the  world,  if  he  had  not  given  me  the 
note  himself.  He  brought  it  this  morning,  and  I  laid  it 
on  your  table,  thinking  that  it  must  be  from  — ."  She 
stopped  short,  for  she  saw  the  ominous  paleness  spread- 
ing over  the  mournful  young  face  before  her,  and  again 
she  reached  for  her  salts ;  but  Rosalie  said,  with  a 
mournful  smile,  "  Never  mind  now,  Mrs.  Forster ;  I 
shan't  faint  again,  but  I  feel  very  weak,  and  so  weary : 
let  me  sleep  if  I  can  ;  "  and  Mrs.  Forster,  darkening  the 
room,  left  her,  to  go  away  and  cry  by  herself,  as  she  sat 
sewing  in  her  easy-chair,  in  the  sitting-room  beneath. 

Rosalie,  left  to  herself,  hoped  against  hope,  that  her 
lover  would  return ;  wiping  away  the  starting  tears, 
^s  she  gazed  on  the  portrait  given  by  him  only  a  few 
days  before,  or  read  over  the  tiny  notes  which  she 
had  received  from  him,  and  carefully  preserved. 
Then,  as  she  thought  of  her  confidence  and  trust  so 
cruelly  betrayed,  her  blood,  inherited  from  a  long  line 
of  noble,  adventurous  ancestors,  boiled  in  her  veins, 
and  she  longed  for  revenge.  Her  eyes  fell  on  a  tiny 
dagger  which  she  had  carried  when  she  played  the 
spy  in  Minas.  She  seized  it,  and  said  aloud  in  her 
terrible  anger  and  despair,  "  I  will  bury  this  in  his 
false  heart !  "  and  then,  softly  to  herself,  as  again  the 
tears  dimmed  and  softened  her  glorious  eyes,  "  He 
would  be  safe  from  me,  were  he  ten  times  as  false, 
were  I  all-powerful." 

Then  her  heart  grew  weary  of  lifj ;  for  what  was 


TRACADIE. 


163 


life  attended  by  disgrace  and  separation  from  all  that 
makes  a  woman's  life  a  blessing  to  herself  and  to 
others?  The  tiny  blade  was  raised  with  another 
and  deadlier  purpose  ;  for  few  there  are,  I  ween,  who 
have  not,  at  some  period  of  their  life,  wished  to  drink 
of  the  grateful  waters  of  Oblivion,  even  though  the 
dread  Angel  of  Death  holds  the  fatal  cup.  Many 
there  are,  great  and  good,  to-day,  who  have  looked 
into  limpid  depths,  and  seen,  in  them,  repose  from 
the  burden  of  sorrow  and  disappointment ;  or,  like 
Cato,  with  ready  weapon,  soliloquized  of  pain  cut  short 
by  sharp  steel ;  or  thought  how  quickly  the  crashing 
voice  of  the  pistol  would  call  the  faint,  despairing  sol- 
dier from  the  fierce  battle  of  life. 

But  Rosalie  thought  of  the  day  on  which  she  had 
first  seen  the  tiny  weapon  —  the  summer  before  the 
death  of  good  Father  Augustine  ;  how  Du  Thet  had 
brought  it  from  Montreal,  and  Father  Augustin*^  had 
seen  it  as  she  received  it  from  the  Jesuit's  hands  ;  and 
guessing  the  reason  of  the  gift,  had  said  earnestly, 
"  My  daughter,  may  the  merciful  God  of  Love  and 
Pity  grant  that  that  blade  remain  unsullied  by  the 
blood  of  his  creatures."  Her  thoughts  wandered 
to  the  scene  of  his  death,  caused  by  his  charity,  and 
love  of  Christ;  of  the  kneeling  form,  which  had 
turned  back  the  swift  march  of  men  unused  to  swerve 
from  their  purpose ;  the  snow-sustained  crucifix ;  the 
open  book,  from  which  the  silent  lips  had  preached  so 
earnestly  and  successfully  the  hardest  lesson  of  life,  — 
forgiveness  of  enemies. 

The  glittering   dirk   fell   from   the  listless  fingers, 
so  tensely  clenched  a  moment  before ;  and  a  prayei 
II 


164 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


for  forgiveness  of  her  deadly  purpose  went  up  from 
her  restless  heart,  with  a  petition  for  strength  to  en- 
dure, and  patience  to  suffer,  until  the  wings  of  Azarel 
the  destroyer  should  shut  out  from  her  weary  eyes  all 
earthly  sorrow  and  desolation. 

So  she  arose,  and  set  her  room  in  order,  and  waited, 
day  by  day,  for  the  coming  of  Thorncliffe ;  slow  to 
believe  that  he  could  prove  faithless  to  her  who  had 
trusted  so  much  to  his  keeping.  But  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  forsake  her,  and  marry  his  rich  and  beau- 
tiful cousin,  from  whom  all  knowledge  of  his  love  for 
Rosalie  had  been  sedulously  concealed.  And  while 
Rosalie,  day  by  day,  watched  and  waited,  longingly 
and  wearily,  for  a  glimpse  of  his  form,  or  a  note  in 
his  handwriting,  Thorncliffe,  forgetful  of  the  past, 
made  the  same  vows  to  Helen  which  he  had  broken 
to  poor  Rosalie  De  Courcy ;  and  soon  the  day  was 
appointed  for  their  nuptials  —  the  eve  of  the  coming 
Christmas. 

Rosalie,  hearing  of  this,  determi  ed  to  attend  them, 
but  might  not  enter  his  father's  house ;  so,  in  the 
drifted  street  she  stood,  opposite  the  uncurtained  win- 
dows through  which  she  saw  the  fair  young  couple 
standing  before  the  venerable  minister,  who  gave  them 
to  each  other ;  and  as  the  mirth  began,  she  reeled 
homeward,  longing  for  death,  yet  with  one  event  the 
less  to  dread. 

The  other  came  to  her  in  after  days,  in  the  pleas- 
ant spring,  when  all  nature  seems  to  rejoice,  and  hu- 
man hearts  grow  light  and  joyous,  beholding  the 
pleasant  face  of  their  common  mother.  But  to  Rosa- 
lie  it  brought  pain,  and  sickness,  and  disgrace,  hut, 


TRACADIE. 


165 


Lip  from 

h  to  en- 

f  Azarel 

eyes  all 

d  waited, 
slow  to 
who  had 
made  up 
nd  beau- 
s  love  for 
nd  while 
longingly 
a  note  in 
the  past, 
id  broken 
day  was 
le  coming 

end  them, 
so,  in  the 
ained  win- 
ng  couple 
gave  them 
she  reeled 
event  tbe 

the  pleas- 
:e,  and  hu- 
olding  the 
ut  to  Rosa- 
grace,  hut, 


nevertheless,  brought  something  on  which  she  could 
rest  the  remnant  of  her  shipwrecked  love  ;  and  as  the 
days  lengthened,  she  grew  stronger,  and  something  of 
the  old  flush  came  back  to  her  cheeks  ;  but  good  Mrs. 
Forster  shook  her  head  ominously,  as  she  watched  it 
deepen  and  grow  pale  by  turns. 

Again  there  came  a  note  from  the  elder  Thorncliffe, 
telling,  in  short  business  phrases,  that  a  vessel  bound 
for  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence  would  sail  on  the  next 
day  week,  *'  God  willing,"  and  that  she  could  have  a 
passage  to  any  port  there,  which  she  might  choose. 

After  long  thought  she  wrote  to  him  that  she  would 
be  landed  at  the  Isle  of  St.  Jean,  and  made  prepara- 
tions to  go.  Hard  was  it  to  part  with  her  kind  land- 
lady, and  harder  still  to  leave  behind  all  hope  of  meet- 
ing again  with  her  faithless  lover,  whose  treachery  had 
not  extinguished  her  love.  But  she  endured  it  all,  and 
saw  with  dim  eyes  the  receding  wharves  and  tall  spires 
of  the  city  w^hich  had  been  to  her  the  scene  of  so  much 
pleasure  —  of  such  great  sorrow. 

Their  voyage  was  unusually  long  and  tempestuous, 
and  their  fare  poor,  and  unsuitable  for  one  as  weak  as 
Rosalie;  and  day  by  day  her  own  strength  failed,  and 
she  saw  the  death  she  had  longed  for  gradually  draw- 
ing nigh.  Her  child,  too,  seemed  weakly  ;  and  it  was 
with  joy  that  she  passed  through  the  still  waters  of  the 
Strait  of  Canseau,  and  reentered  the  open  gulf. 

She  directed  the  captain  to  land  her  at  Port  la  Joie ; 
but  he  would  not  enter  the  harbor  for  fear  of  treach- 
ery ;  so,  standing  up  the  eastern  shore  of  the  isle, 
he  hailed  a  small  shallop,  and  placed  her,  with  her 
few  effects,  on  board.     As  she  left  the  deck  of  the 


'i\m 


m 


1 66 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


schooner,  she  placed  a  packet  in  the  hand  of  the  mas- 
ter, and  made  him  promise  to  deliver  it  safely ;  then, 
stepping  into  the  shallop,  she  saw  the  swift  craft  she 
had  left  pursuing  her  course  to  the  eastward. 

"What  is  your  name,  madam?"  The  voice  seemed 
familiar,  as  she  turned  and  saw  the  captain  of  the  boat 
standing  by  her  side.  As  she  saw  the  straight,  tall 
form,  which,  but  for  the  face,  seamed  with  care  and 
exposure,  might  have  belonged  to  a  youth  of  twenty- 
five,  her  thought  went  back  to  the  time  when,  from 
the  burial-ground  of  the  plague-stricken  camp  at  Che- 
bucto,  she  had  seen  the  same  man,  heading,  in  his 
white-winged  shallop,  the  home-bound  canoes  of  the 
remnant  of  the  warriors  of  St.  Jean. 

"You  do  not  know  me  then,  Jean  Durel?" 

"  No,  madam ;  but  I  have  seen  a  face  like  yours 
somewhere ;  and,  since  you  know  me,  it  cannot  have 
been  in  my  dreams,"  said  he,  cheerily. 

"  It  was  not  in  a  dream,  although  it  seems  like  one 
now ;  for  then  the  face  was  that  of  a  happy  child,  and 
now  it  is  a  woman's,  and  pallid  with  pain  and  sick- 


ness. 


)» 


"  Where,  then,  have  I  seen  it?  for  my  memory  is  so 
full  of  various  faces  that  I  do  not  always  remember." 

"  The  last  time  you  saw  me,  ten  years  ago,  I  stood 
by  the  side  of  my  Indian  nurse,  and  you  kissed  me 
good  by,  as  you  "  —  / 

"  Parted  with  your  guardian  Du  Thet,  the  warrior 
priest  of  Acadia."  And  he  shook  her  hand  heartily, 
calling  aloud  in  his  joy,  —  -  "< 

"  Henri !  Jacques  !  come  here  and  greet  Mademoi- 
selle De  Courcy,  your  old  playmate  at  Chebucto. " 


TRACADIE. 


167 


And,  as  the  tall,  strong  men  greeted  her  kindly,  and 
almost  wept  as  they  asked  her  of  her  friends  and  for- 
tunes, she  felt,  for  a  time,  at  least,  the  luxury  of  meet- 
ing with  warm-hearted  friends. 

"  And  you  are  married,  too  !  What  a  pretty  boy  !  '* 
but  he  ceased  as  he  saw  the  deep  crimson  blushes,  so 
soon  succeeded  by  the  livid  pallor  which  followed 
them ;  and  they  sailed  onward  in  silence,  over  the 
foaming  bar,  into  the  serene,  quiet  harbor  of  Tracadie. 

The  boat  glided  on  until  Rosalie  could  see  the  little 
chapel,  with  its  simple  cross,  surrounded  by  the  hum- 
ble dwellings  of  her  countrymen.  A  shallop  sailed  to 
meet  them,  and  a  tall  young  man  called  across  the 
water  to  Durel,  "  What  cheer,  Captain  Jean,  and 
why  did  the  Englishman  board  you  outside?" 

"  The  best  luck  of  the  season,  Fidele,  for  I  have 
brought  ashore  a  passenger,  a  countrywoman,  Fidele." 

The  news  was  repeated,  and  passed  rapidly  from 
house  to  house,  while  the  women  and  children  came 
down  to  join  the  fishermen  on  the  beach.  The  prow 
of  the  boat  touched  the  shore,  and  strong  hands  car- 
ried Rosalie  across  the  intervening  shallows,  to  be 
seized,  caressed,  and  heartily  welcomed,  by  no  less  a 
personage  than  her  former  friend,  Christine  Gallant, 
now  the  happy  wife  of  Fidele  Arsenaut. 

Then  Rosalie,  wondering  if  so  much  happiness  could 
be  hers,  went  up  to  the  house  of  her  friend,  although 
Durel  urged  her  to  stay  with  him  for  a  while,  at  least ; 
and  after  a  supper,  which  seemed  a  feast  after  her  hard 
fine  on  board  the  schooner,  she  lay  down  to  sleep,  and 
awoke  not  until  the  sun  had  been  many  hours  above 
the  horizon. 


liiHK 


I II 


1 68 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


When  she  arose,  she  found  breakfast  awaiting  her, 
and  with  it  Christine,  anxious  to  hear  the  story  of  her 
life  since  they  had  been  separated  at  Minas.  She 
told  her  of  much  of  what  we  have  here  related,  and 
Christine  spoke  words  of  consolation  and  friendship, 
sweet  indeed  to  one  so  long  denied  them. 

The  evening  came,  and  with  it  Fidele  home  from 
his  work ;  and  after  the  evening  meal  he  told  of  his 
own  trials,  and  of  the  surprise  of  the  English  crew  by 
himself  and  his  fellow-exiles,  —  how,  unarmed,  they 
had  seized  the  arms  of  the  heretics,  and  turned  them 
against  themselves  ;  how  women,  in  their  anguish  and 
despair,  had  fought  like  the  men  ;  and  how  Providence 
had  guarded  them  from  recapture,  supplied  them  with 
food,  and  blessed  their  labors  in  this  new  land,  where 
nothing  terrified  save  the  fear  of  English  cruisers. 

While  he  was  still  speaking,  the  Durels  came  in,  and 
listened  to  his  story  of  the  weak  and  sick,  who  had 
been  unable  to  support  their  sorrows,  and  died  in  the 
lonely  woods,  or  on  the  pitiless  surges ;  and  tears  fell 
like  rain  while  he  spoke. 

Then  Rosalie  was  asked  to  tell  her  story ;  and  she 
told  it  as  it  had  been,  from  the  first  of  the  mutual 
confidence,  the  night  before  the  reading  of  the  king's 
Proclamation,  the  removals,  the  voyage,  and  her  de- 
sertion. She  saw  the  faces  around  grow  hard  and 
cold  ;  the  old,  fierce  look  wreathing  the  face  of  Durel; 
and  Christine,  even,  seemed  uncertain  whether  to 
blame  or  to  pity. 

But  Fidele  rose,  his  face  flushed  with  anger,  and 
said,  "  Rosalie,  as  friends  we  have  received  ycJu :  we 
thought  you  a  sufierer  from  the  same  cruel  cause  as 


TRACADIE. 


169 


ourselves ;  we  find  you  false  to  us  and  your  brave 
guardian.  Had  you  told  us  the  fate  that  threatened, 
how  many  lives  would  have,  perhaps,  been  spared  us, 
whose  light  was  quenched  by  the  despair  and  suffering 
of  that  terrible  year  of  woe  and  misfortune  !  On  you 
I  lay  the  death  of  my  dear  father,  whose  old  age 
could  not  sustain  our  hurried  march  across  the 
wooded  hills  of  Shepardie ;  on  you,  the  blood  that 
stained  the  decks  of  the  Arrow ;  the  desolation 
which  broods  over  the  ruins  of  dear  old  Minas. 
In  your  desertion  and  disgrace  I  see  the  justice  of 
Heaven ;  and  from  my  roof  I  desire  you  to  depart  as 
soon  as  may  be." 

Rosalie  looked  around  her,  but  saw  no  ray  of  pity 
to  cheer  or  encourage,  and,  taking  her  babe,  went 
forth  into  the  cold  rain  and  dense  darkness  of  the 
night,  —  for  a  storm  had  set  in  since  noon,  —  weary  of 
life  and  utterly  hopeless.  But  her  mother's  love  still 
lived,  and  she  wrapped  her  child  in  the  thin  mantle 
she  wore,  regardless  of  herself,  as  sadly  she  walked 
with  trembling  steps  over  the  wet  turf.  % 

"  When  shall  my  weariness  and  misfortunes  end  ?  " 
she  exclaimed ;  and  she  heard  the  waves  answer,  as 
they  broke  on  the  shores  below,  "  With  death  alone." 

"  I  accept  the  answer,  for  in  truth  on  earth  sorrow 
and  shame  alone  are  my  portion.  Father  in  heaven, 
forgive  me,  if  I  seek  in  another  world  a  refuge  from 
the  cares  and  anguish  of  this." 

She  was  hurrying  down  to  the  shore :  the  hoarse 
roar  of  the  ocean  surges  sounded  nearer,  the  waves 
of  the  haven  broke  less  loudly,  almost  at  her  very  feet ; 
but  she  remembered  her  child.     Life  to  him  might  yet 


'    i: 


liiii 


Hi    '  "■' 

i 


r, 


\\MU 


i! 


sill 
•F    ■ 


liiii 


170 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


be  sweet ;  in  the  years  of  the  future,  careless  of  the  love 
of  a  mother  he  had  lost  too  early  to  know,  he  might 
become  rich,  famous,  and  happy. 

Near  her  a  darker  shadow  loomed  up  in  the  darkness, 
and  in  its  large,  unlighted  walls  she  recognized  the 
chapel  of  the  settlement.  The  rude  cross  of  the  grave- 
yard attracted  her  eyes,  and  turned  her  from  her 
purpose  of  suicide. 

"  In  the  house  of  God  I  will  seek  the  shelter  denied 
me  by  men,"  she  thought,  as  she  tried  the  door,  which 
opened  easily ;  and  she  entered  the  chapel,  where, 
on  one  of  the  rude  benches,  she  passed  that  terrible 
night. 

In  bitter  tears  of  shame,  in  agonies  of  sorrow,  in 
prayers  for  forgiveness,  in  abasement  of  spirit,  in 
hope  of  rest  in  death,  and  the  joys  of  another  life; 
until,  wearied  in  body,  and  stupefied  with  emotion, 
she  sank  into  a  deathly  sleep,  from  which  she  awoke 
not  until  the  villagers  had  assembled  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  her  awaking  ears  were  greeted  by  the  voice 
of  the  priest,  as  he  commenced  the  ritual  of  the  sa- 
cred mass. 

When  Rosalie  left  the  house,  no  one  had  entreat- 
ed her  to  remain ;  and  after  she  had  gone,  they  sat 
looking  at  each  other  in  sullen  silence,  during  which 
the  priest  entered.  They  bowed  reverentially  as  he 
gave  them  his  blessing :  his  first  inquiry  was  for  the 
new  comer. 

"  Where  is  your  guest,  Christine?  " 

Christine  did  not  answer.  ^ 

"  She  has  left  us,"  said  Fidele,  coldly. 

*'  Left  you  ?    Impossible !  "  said  the  priest. 


TRACADIE. 


171 


f  sorrow,  in 
of  spirit,  in 
another  life; 
ith  emotion, 
;h  she  awoke 
next  morn- 
by  the  voice 
lal  of  the  sa- 


*'  Is  it  not  so?  "  said  Fidele  to  those  around  him. 
They  replied  by  silent  nods,  and  the  blushes  came 
back  to  the  cheeks  of  some,  as  they  thought  of  the 
cool  winds  and  piercing   rain  without.     The   priest 
frowned. 

"  Explain  your  words,  Fidele  Arsenaut.  Where 
is  the  guest  who  sought  your  hospitality?  the  un- 
fortunate, sent  by  God  to  receive  our  consolation  and 
assistance." 

"  I  will  tell  you.  Father  Jerome,  and  you  will  see 
that  she  is  altogether  unworthy  our  kindness,  rather 
worthy  of  death."  Then  he  detailed  her  whole  story, 
dwelling  especially  on  her  guilt  in  not  divulging  the 
secret  imparted  to  her  at  Grand  Pre.  He  concluded, 
"  And  now,  holy  father,  can  any  one  blame  us,  who 
have  lost  so  much  of  worldly  happiness,  who  have 
been  separated  from  loved  ones,  and  kind  neighbors, 
when  a  word  from  her  might  have  saved  us  all  that 
we  have  lost?  Can  any  one  blame  us,  I  say,  if  we 
refuse  to  harbor  so  guilty  a  creature?"         i. 

"  Fidele,"  —  and  the  priest's  voice  tremblld  as  he 
spoke,  — "  I  know  you  to  be  a  pious  man,  and  that, 
every  night  before  you  sleep,  you  ask  God  to  bestow 
his  forgiveness  on  you,  as  you  bestow  pardon  on 
others ;  and  yet  you,  who  by  his  blessing  have  found 
here  a  happy  home,  while  hundreds  of  others  wander 
disconsolately  in  distant  lands ;  you,  who  have  heard 
the  touching  story  of  the  many  misfortunes  of  this 
poor  girl ;  you,  who  have  never  known  such  misery  as 
she  must  daily  suffer,  —  yet  you,  I  say,  have  driven  her 
out  from  among  you  shelterless,  weary  of  life,  friend- 
less, and  despairing. 


172 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


"  Let  U9  go  !  "  said  he,  rising.    '•*■  A  lantern,  Fidele  ! " 

It  was  brought,  and  the  men,  taking  their  heavy 
coats,  went  out  with  him  to  search  for  the  woman 
they  had  so  cruelly  scorned  —  but  in  vain.  In  vain 
they  searched  the  whole  settlement  —  in  sheds,  in 
barns,  in  the  angles  of  the  chapel  building  itself;  no 
one  thought  of  trying  the  door ;  and,  after  hours  of 
search,  they  returned  to  their  respective  homes  as 
anxious  for  the  safety  of  Rosalie  now,  as  they  had 
been  indignant  and  cruel  a  few  hours  before. 

Fidele  left  the  priest  at  his  door.  "  If  she  should 
die  to-night,  her  blood  will  be  on  my  head.  Pray 
God,  that  this  sin  of  want  of  charity  and  forgiveness 
be  not  laid  to  my  charge." 

"  Hope  for  the  best,  my  son,  and  earnestly  seek  for- 
giveness. Many  such  sins  are  forgiven,  for  few  there 
are  who  have  learned  the  greatest  lesson  taught  by 
the  Savior  of  men."  And  with  his  blessing,  he  bade 
him  good  night. 


173 


CHAPTER    XIX. 


THE  LITANY  OF  THE  SACRED  HEART. 


tly  seek  for- 
)r  few  there 
I  taught  by 
ng,  he  bade 


THE  people  gathered  in  the  little  chapel,  unmind- 
ful of  Rosalie,  who  still  slumbered  in  her  obscure 
corner,  until  awakened  by  the  voice  of  the  priest,  as' 
he  commenced  the  solemn  service  of  the  mass ;  and 
she  arose,  and  seated  herself  upon  the  bench  on  which 
her  head  had  been  pillowed  during  her  long  stupor. 

Glad  were  the  hearts  of  Christine  and  Fidele  ;  and 
looks  of  kindness  greeted  the  poor  girl  from  faces  the 
night  before  black  with  anger  and  cold  with  scorn. 
But  all  were  silent  as  the  service  proceeded. 

With  lowly  head  and  clasped  hands,  Rosalie  joined  in 
the  Confiteor,  mindful  of  the  dead  past,  and  feeling  that 
the  future  had  little  space  for  repentance  or  change 
of  life ;  for  she  felt  faint  and  dizzy,  and  her  temples 
were  throbbing  with  fierce  pain.  Then,  with  a  calm 
and  grateful  awe,  she  heard  the  words  of  Father 
Jerome,  as  he  repeated  the  "  Absolution  of  sins  to 
those  who  truly  repent;"  for  to  her  the  world  had 
nought  in  the  future.  No  darling  temptation,  no  cher- 
ished idol,  to  impair  the  sincerity  of  her  repentance 
for  the  sins  which  had  brought  so  fearful  a  punish- 
ment. ,, 

The  service  proceeded ;  and,  with  varied  emotions, 
she  listened  to  entreaties  for  mercy,  and  the  deep  and 


li  i 


i  'I'l'ic'in 


I H I 


ijiii;i;ii; 


174 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


solemn  chanting  of  the  choir,  until  it  began  the  "  Lit- 
any of  the  Sacred  Heart  of  Jesus"  —  not  a  part  of  the 
regular  service,  but  sung  or  read  at  certain  seasons  of 
the  year. 

As  the  chant  began,  Rosalie  listened  to  the  words 
earnestly,  and  remembered  how  she  had  heard  them 
in  the  happy  past,  at  Chignecto  and  Minas ;  and,  in- 
audibly,  she  joined  in  the  words  which  beseech  the 
listening  car  of  the  Most  High  :  — 
"  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us. 

Christ,  have  mercy  upon  us. 

Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us. 

Christ,  hear  us. 

Christ,  graciously  hear  us." 
Then  followed  the  numerous  attributes  of  the  great, 
kind  heart  of  Him  to  whom  every  mortal  heart  must 
turn  for  consolation  in  sorrow  and  desolation. 
"  Heart  of  Jesus  most  meek. 

Heart  of  Jesus  most  humble. 

Heart  of  Jesus  most  obedient. 

Heart  of  Jesus  most  chaste." 
And  Rosalie,  recognizing  her  own  want  of  humility 
and  resignation,  bent  lower  before  her  Savior  as  she 
sang,  and  each  adoring  sentence  was  a  prayer  for  for- 
giveness. Still  swelled  the  chant,  and  as  it  rose,  the 
song  of  Rosalie  rose  with  it,  growing  audible  by 
degrees. 
-    "  Heart  of  Jesus,  source  of  contrition  ; 

Heart  of  Jesus,  treasure  of  wisdom  ; 

Heart  of  Jesus,  ocean  of  bounty  ; 

Heart  of  Jesus,  throne  of  mercy ; 

Heart  of  Jesus,  abyss  of  all  virtue." 


THE  LITANY  OF  THE  SACRED  HEART. 


'75 


Then   the   same    chant   grew   sad   and    mournful, 
placing    before    men    the    sorrows    of   the    Savior's 
heart. 
"  Heart  of  Jesus,  sorrowful  in  the  garden  ; 
Heart  of  Jesus,  spent  with  bloody  sweat ; 
Heart  of  Jesus,  filled  with  our  reproaches  ; 
Heart  of  Jesus,  consumed  for  our  sins  ; 
Heart  of  Jesus,  made  obedient  unto  the  death  of 

the  cross ; 
Heart  of  Jesus,  pierced  with  a  lance." 
Rosalie  felt,  as  she  never  before  had  felt,  the  great 
love  of  the  Son  of  God.     Her  tears  fell  freely  as  she 
sang  on  with  the  choir,  and  the  low  moanings  of  her 
babe  mingled  with  her  own  sad  tones.     The  people 
listened,  and  tears  broke  from  many  eyes ;  but  the 
chant  continued :  — 
"  Heart  of  Jesus,  refuge  of  sinners  ; 
Heart  of  Jesus,  fortitude  of  the  just ; 
Heart  of  Jesus,  comfort  of  the  afflicted  ; 
Heart  of  Jesus,  strength  of  the  tempted  ; 
Heart  of  Jesus,  terror  of  devils  ; 
Heart  of  Jesus,  sanctify  our  hearts." 
Her  voice  became  husky  and  tremulous,  but  still  she 
sang  on  to  the  end,  her  eyes  cast  upward  and  onward, 
as  if  she  already  saw  before  her  a  welcome  rest  in  the 
arms  of  the  Good  Shepherd. 
"  Heart  of  Jesus,  perseverance  of  the  good ; 
Heart  of  Jesus,  hope  of  the  dying ; 
Heart  of  Jesus,  joy  of  the  blessed  ; 
Heart  of  Jesus,  the  delight  of  all  the  saints." 
As  she  ceased,  she  stood  trembling  for  a  moment 
with  emotion  and  weakness,  and  then  sat  down  quietly, 


ii '  i  fillii 


'!)!' '  I  ' 


;liii 


i!!;. 


'  ^im  I 


fli'r 


mm ' 


ii 


ii 


I'lli! 


'ii!!   ili 

m0 


ilii!  iijliiilij!'!!  ' 


%m 


ij|i|:  i!;!i|,; 


i  U) 


m 


I     ! 


176 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


sinking  back  as  if  wearied ;  but  the  good  priest  saw 
the  white  lines  widening  and  covering  her  fiice. 

"  Fidele,"  said  he,  pointing  to  RosaHe,  "  I  say  unto 
you,  '  Feed  my  sheep.'  " 

And  Fidele,  rising,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  raised 
her  in  his  strong  arms,  and,  followed  by  Christine 
with  the  babe,  bore  her  gently  home,  and  laid  her  on 
the  bed,  from  which  she  was  never  to  rise  again. 

She   revived   from  her  swoon  to  receive  the  kind 
words   and  caresses  of  Christine,  and   the  apologies 
of  Fidele,  whose  attentions  strove  in  vain  to  restore 
the   health  and  strength  lost  by  her  on  that  terrible 
night.     Day  by  day  she  grew  weaker ;  yet  her  mind 
was   little  disordered  by  her  illness,   and  she  talked 
often  with  Christine  of  her  happiness  in*  the  far-off 
Acadian  land  ;  and,  in  her  short  intervals  of  deliiium, 
she  seemed  to  be  again  in  thought  amid  the  scenes  of 
her  girlhood ;  now  listening  to  good  Father  Augus- 
tine, now  rambling  with  Hubert  after  berries  or  flow- 
ers, or  gliding     ver  the   shallows  of  the  little  lake, 
among  the  odorouS  water-lilies.     "  Stop,  brother,"  she 
would  say,  "  and  let  us  gather  some  of  these  lilies. 
How  beautifully  pure  and  sweet  they  are.     It  is  true 
they  will  fade  and  wither  soon,  and  it  seems  a  pity 
that  they  should  die   to   give   us  a  few  moments  of 
pleasure." 

*'  Father  Augustine,"  she  would  say,  at  another 
time,  "  they  told  me  you  were  dead,  and  I  dreamed  I 
saw  you  lying  cold  and  still,  your  little  crucifix  on 
your  breast." 

"  Do  you  say  you  did  die?  and  why,  father?  "  Andl 
she  waited  a  few  moments,  as  if  for  an  answer. 


THE  LITANY  OF  THE  SACRED  HEART. 


177 


priest  saw 

ice. 

I  say  unto 

y'cs,  raised 
r  Christine 
aid  her  on 

igain. 
e  the  kind 
e   apologies 
1  to  restore 
that  terrible 
et  her  mind 
d  she  talked 
11- the  far-otY 
of  deliiium, 
the  scenes  of 
ather  Augus- 
;rries  or  flow- 
:,e  little  lake, 
brother,"  she 
>f  these  lilies- 
re.     It  is  tnie 
seems  a  pity 
f  moments  of 


■Y' 


at  another 
idldreamecU 
tie  crucifix  on 


father?"   Anc 
answer. 


"From  love  of  God,  and  chanty  to  -iCn?  I  am 
dying  of  love ;  pray  for  me,  father,  that  the  love  of 
God  may  give  me  rest  with  you  in  heaven." 

But  one  night  "  a  change  came  over  the  spirit  of 
her  dream,"  and  she  seemed  stern,  calm,  and  emotion- 
less, as  she  spoke  for  the  first  time  of  her  faithless 
lover.  She  seemed  to  imagine  him  standing  before 
her,  and  to  have  been  asking  him  if  he  had  received 
something  she  had  sent  him. 

"  Then  you  have  not  received  the  package  I  sent 
you,  and  the  captain  was  false  to  his  trust :  then  I 
must  tell  you  of  its  contents.  There  were,  first,  your 
letters,  noble  and  true,  as  you  were  when  first  I  knew 
you.  Read  them  once,  and  you  are  sufficiently  pun- 
ished, for  you  will  never  again  believe  yourself  to  be 
an  honorable  man.  Next,  your  gifts,  excepting  your 
picture.  \our  wife  need  not  be  jealous,  for  it  will 
soon  lie  on  the  bosom  of  the  dead.  Lastly,  your  own 
destiny,  and  the  warning  of  her  who  read  your  fate  in 
the  stars.  Stay  at  home  when  the  lilies  of  France 
threaten  your  flag ;  seek  not  again  the  shores  of  the 
Gulf;  avoid  the  city  twice  besieged,  the  perilous 
trenches,  the  desperate  r  ^ly,  until  your  thirtieth  year 
be  past;  then  you  may  ..afely  indulge  your  love  of 
adventure  or  ambition." 

She  then  spoke  vaguely  of  sunken  fleets,  and  barks 
wrapped  in  flames,  until  she  slep.,  and  awoke  to  speak 
calmly  and  rationally  as  ever. 

A  fo^night  before  she  died,  a  canoe  arrived  at  the 
little  settlement,  and  one  of  its  occupants,  a  woman  of 
tall  form,  and  regular,  noble  features,  asked  if  Chris- 
tine Gallant  lived  in  that  part  of  the  island.     She  was 


I  Hi 


i    I 


ilniili 


li 


n 

I 


I   i 


ll  ! 


illiiiiiii 


; 


ill! 

ill 


'if! 


if 

I'liii 


m\mm> 


Illiiiiiii 


m 
liii 


liila!' 


ti!;i 


I  78 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


directed  to  the  house,  and  walked  in  without  knock- 
ing, but  stopped  suddenly,  as  she  saw  the  pale  face  of 
Rosalie  before  her  ;  and  then  stepped  quickly  forward 
to  embrace  her  long-lost  darling. 

Rosalie  threw  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  her  old 
nurse,  and  cried  and  laughed  by  turns. 

"  Ulalie  has  been  lonely,  for  she  has  missed  the 
songs  and  caresses  of  the  bird  which  left  its  nest  at 
Chignecto,  and  went,  no  one  knew  whither." 

"Ah,  Ulalie!  your  bird  has  come  back  with  shat- 
tered wings,  and  wishes  only  to  nestle  a  while  in 
your  arms,  before  it  takes  its  flight  into  the  world  of 
shadows." 

"  Ulalie  will  take  care  of  her  bird,  and  its  wings 
will  grow  strong  again,  as  in  the  happy  days  at  the 
old  cottage  in  Chignecto.  The  Black  Robe  and  Hu- 
bert will  soon  be  here,  and  their  hearts  will  rejoice  to 
learn  that  the  lost  one  has  returned  to  them  again. 
But  Rosalie  must  not  talk  more.  Ulalie  will  tell  her 
about  all  that  has  happened  ;  but  she  must  rest." 

And  Rosalie,  knowing  that  it  was  useless  to  con- 
tend, listened  as  Ulalie  spoke  of  the  life  led  by  Du 
Thet  and  Hubert  since  the  year  before,  and  fell  asleep 
as  the  sun  was  setting. 

Ulalie,  rising,  went  to  the  assistance  of  Christine, 
and  of  her  learned  all  that  had  happened  to  Rosalie. 
As  she  listened,  her  face  became  terrible  with  resolve. 
"  The  eagle  may  slay  the  robin  with  safety  ;  but  who 
shall  save  the  eagle  from  the  arrows  of  the  Abenaqui?" 
Christine  knew  that  the  fate  of  Thorncliffe  was  little 
short  of  certain. 

As  the  invalid  grew  worse,  she  talked  often  with 


iiijiiii 


■:~\'  "!7  lyn''  -^^T-^^yvi^j^^.f-  vfi^'^'Y'^yrf^r'rr^ri.^\*r  r-'y-'  -'^.p  .    ■.^'-;f.  ■ 


THE    LITANY   OF   THE    SACRED   HEART. 


179 


ed  the 
nest  at 

h  sliat- 
hile  in 
orld  of 

:s  wings 
s  at  the 
ind  Hu- 
ejoice  to 
n  again. 
.  tell  her 

St." 

s  to  con- 
;d  byDu 
fell  asleep 


good  Father  Jerome,  and  she  became  strangely  quiet 
and  calm  as  her  sickness  increased :  talking,  some- 
times, mournfully  of  the  past,  it  is  true  ;  but  of  death 
as  a  welcome  messenger,  bringing  a  summons  to 
a  brighter  life.  She  was  troubled  only  about  two 
things :  first,  the  concealment  of  their  fate  from  the 
people  of  Minas ;  and  secondly,  the  future  of  her 
child. 

"  Do  you  think  there  was  anything  to  excuse  my 
treachery,  Father  Jerome?"  said  she,  one  day,  as  he  sat 
by  her  bedside.  "  You  do  not  know  how  I  sutlered, 
how  I  wept.  For  I  foresaw,  if  I  kept  the  secret  of 
my  lover,  the  desolation  which  lies  over  that  fair  land  ; 
and  it  seemed  to  me  that  worse  results  would  follow 
if  I  revealed  it.  I  saw  the  angry  and  astounded  farm- 
ers gathering  to  the  battle  against  the  trained  masses 
of  the  foe;  the  swift  runners,  calling  to  their  aid  the 
fierce  warriors  of  the  forest ;  the  hopeless  and  san- 
guinary conflict;  the  houses  torn  by  the  huge  missiles 
from  the  black  war-ships.  And  I  knew  that  the  life  of 
Thorncliffe  might  be  sacrificed,  my  own  ended,  by  the 
ignominious  death  of  the  spy.  So  my  woman's  heart 
failed  me ;  and  I  dared  not  fill  the  sacred  and  peaceful 
stillness  of  that  quiet  night  with  the  terrible  sounds  of 
the  fierce  anger  of  man. 

"  Another  thing  troubles  me  :  death  is  near,  and  I 
welcome  him  ;  but  I  am  anxious  for  my  child.  Would 
that  my  brother  were  here  to  see  me  once  more,  to 
tolu  me  in  his  strong  arms,  and  to  tell  me  that  he  will 
care  for  the  helpless  babe,  so  soon  to  be  motherless." 

"Daughter,"  said  Father  Jerome,  "  you  may  not  be 
harshly  judged  for  the  past ;  perhaps  }  our  motives 
12 


lll  ■  i 


in 


';i  i  1 1  ii  I 

'!   ii'i 


'I  I 


js 


lljll! 


!| 
iiiiii 


m 
III 


I  So 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


were  more  worthy  of  praise  than  censure  ;  for,  *  Bless- 
ed are  the  peacemakers/  Christ,  who  hath  suffered  as 
thou  hast  suffered,  and  who  reads  the  hearts  of  all, 
will  be  thy  judge,  and  not  we  ;  who,  weak  and  erring, 
see  only  with  selfish  eyes,  and  hearts  unmindful  of  the 
mercy  shown  to  us." 

Ulalie  said,  "  In  the  lodges  of  the  Abenaquis  there 
shall  ever  be  a  place  for  the  child  of  Rosalie ;  in  the 
care  of  the  Black  Robe  he  will  not  want.  Chris- 
tine also  has  said  that  the  babe  of  her  dearest  friend 
shall  never  want  for  care  while  she  lives  ;  so  the  wings 
of  the  dove  may  be  folded  in  peace." 

As  the  nurse  and  Father  Jerome  went  out  together, 
they  heard,  rising  on  the  still  air,  the  longing  apostro- 
phes of  the  Litany  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 

"  Heart  of  Jesus !  hope  of  the  dying ;  heart  of 
Jesus  !  joy  of  the  blessed  ;  heart  of  Jesus  !  hope  of 
all  the  saints." 

"  God  grant  us  forgiveness,"  said  Fidele,  who  over- 
heard her,  "for  our  sin;  when  once  before  we  heard 
her  sing,  with  our  hearts  untouched  by  pity,  and  hers 
was  breaking." 

At  last  came  the  day  so  long  expected  ;  if  not  long- 
ingly, at  least  unfearingly,  by  the  patient  invalid.  It 
came,  balmy  and  beautiful  as  those  of  the  Indian  sum- 
mer, when  the  leaves  are  dying,  and  the  flowers  are 
fading  away ;  and  yet  all  nature  seems  bright  and 
beautiful. 

The}'  sat  in  the  quiet  chamber.  Fidele  no  longer 
angry,  but  kind  and  regretful ;  Christine  with  the  old 
love  in  her  eyes,  red  with  weeping ;  Durcl,  stern,  as 
was  his  wont,  but  grave  and  sympathetic  ;  Father  Jer- 


liiii 


THE   LITANY    OF   THE    SACRED    HEART. 


l8l 


'  not  long- 
iivalid.  It 
idian  sum- 
lowers  are 
bright  and 

no  longer 
ith  the  old 
el,  stern,  as 
Father  Jer- 


ome, who  had  performed  the  solemn  services  meet  for 
the  dying ;  Ulalie,  who,  to  the  last,  would  serve  the 
child  she  had  nourished  ;  and  Rosalie,  who,  awaiting 
with  patience  and  contentment  the  coming  of  the 
Lord's  messenger,  lay  on  her  couch,  speaking  kind 
words  of  consolation. 

"  Do  not  weep,  Christine,  for  me.  I  have  long 
waited  for  death  ;  and,  in  wicked  despair,  have,  at 
times,  determined  to  anticipate  his  long  approach  : 
but  now  I  am  of  a  difierent  mind.  Life  to  me  has  lit- 
tle to  offer  but  sorrow  ;  and  the  consolations  of  reli- 
gion, the  joy  of  pious  works,  can  only  alleviate  the  long 
and  weary  journey.  In  a  better  life,  a  happier  land,  I 
shall  find  rest  and  peace  ;  and  I  hope  to  welcome  you 
all  there  when  you  too  cross  the  mysterious  river. 

"  Let  me  ask  of  you  a  favor,  and  do  not  let  my  words 
grieve  you.  When,  in  the  future,  you  sing  that  chant 
you  heard  me  sing  at  the  chapel,  think  of  those  who 
may  be  weak  and  erring,  as  I  am,  and  for  my  sake  try 
to  soothe  and  comfort  them ;  knowing  that  the  great 
Heart  you  petition  is  full  of  mercy  for  the  worst  of  his 
creatures.  Do  you  promise?" 
They  all  answered,  "  We  do." 

"  Ulalie,  tell  my  guardian  and  dear  brother,  ^  a- 
bert,  that  I  died  loving  them;  and  ask  them,  ii  .ver 
they  should  meet  in  battle  the  man  to  whom  I  owe  all 
my  sorrow,  to  forgive  him  for  my  sake.  I  may  not 
love  him  now,  for  another  possesses  his  affections  ',  but 
I  may  save  his  life,  for  in  the  future  he  must  meet  with 
the  avenger.  Tell  them  this,  Ulalie ;  f-^r  it  seems  as 
if  I  should  not  rest  even  in  the  quiet  grave,  should  he 
die  for  his  sin  against  me." 


Ill 


:§'i 


182 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


lit!  'If;!:  ill 

m 


i 


i  ! 


HI   ill; 


ill!!! 

iii 


a!  iSiiil 
!  ill  ■'liii'i 


I 

nil  fc i 

ill 

Mir!! 


'1! 

I' 
iiiiliil 


li^i-l 


I  i  Mil!  I :;::!::;: 

'  :  Hit  li:0!>'li; 


'i!!i'' 


MM 


"  I  will  tell  them,"  said  Ulalie. 

"  I  am  tired.  I  will  sleep  now  ;  "  and  she  sank  into 
a  sort  of  stupor,  from  which  when  she  awoke,  she 
seemed  to  be  singing  from  her  favorite  chant,  through 
which  her  deep  agony  had  floated  to  heaven,  on  the 
first  Sabbath  of  her  stay  at  Tracadie.  As  the  shades 
grew  deeper,  and  the  sun's  last  rays  threw  their  faint 
gleams  of  ruddy  light  on  the  western  sky,  the  weary 
eyes  closed  forever  to  the  scenes  of  earth  ;  the  little 
hands  lay  pale  and  nerveless  on  the  motionless  breast; 
the  heart  which  had  so  often  beat  wildly  with  love  and 
pleasure,  or  almost  stood  still  with  fear  and  anguish, 
ceased  its  allotted  task.  Another  bark  lay  a  wreck  on 
the  shores  of  time.  Another  soul  sailed  the  unseen 
ocean  of  eternity. 

She  was  laid  to  rest  in  the  little  churchyard,  and 
Fidele  placed  a  simple  cross  of  cedar  at  the  head  of 
the  grave ;  for,  save  the  ledges  of  soft  sandstone,  no 
more  lasting  material  could  be  found  in  that  beautiful 
island.  All  the  inhabitants  of  the  settlement  attended 
her  burial,  and  few  eyes  were  dry  as  Father  Jerome 
spoke  of  the  sorrowful  experiences  of  the  dead,  —  her 
patience  in  her  last  sufferings,  her  glorious  hope  of 
another  and  happier  land  ;  finishing  with  a  fervid  ex- 
hortation to  be  warned  and  profited  by  her  example. 

As  the  green  turf  covered  her  last  resting-place, 
the  mourners  went  back  to  their  homes,  each  to  sufter 
and  enjoy,  as  fate  decreed,  the  life  which  to  her  would 
bring  nothing  more  of  joy  or  sorrow. 

Ulalie  alone  remained  by  the  grave :  Ulalie,  whose 
heart  was  now  almost  desolate,  whose  mind  was  fuH 
of  sad  and  bitter  reveries  ;  and  as  she  remembered  the 


TIIK    LITANY   OF    THE    SACRED    HEART. 


183 


;  sank  into 
woke,  she 
it,  through 
en,  on  the 
the  shades 
•  their  ftiint 
,  the  weary 
i;  the  little 
ilcss  breast ; 
ith  love  and 
nd  anguish, 
r  a  wreck  on 
the  unseen 

rchyard,  and 
the  head  of 
andstone,  no 
hat  beautiful 
nent  attended 
ather  Jerome 
dead,  — her 

ious  hope  of 
a  fervid  ex- 

er  example, 
resting-pl^c^' 
each  to  suffer 
to  her  would 

Ulalie,  whose 


mind  was 


full 


imembered  the 


great  wrong  which  had  culminated  thus  in  sorrow  and 
death,  she  thought  scornfully  of  the  new  faith  which 
taught  licr  forgiveness  for  injuries. 

"  Ulalie  has  long  tried  to  listen  to  the  teachings  of 
the  white  priests,  and  she  has  bent  before  their  God 
in  sorrow  and  repentance  ;  every  evening  her  petition 
has  sought  Mali^*  the  mother  of  ycchuch  Kllt.^  Yet 
Cubenic  went  from  her,  when  her  love  had  wound 
itself  around  him,  as  the  ivy  embraces  the  elm  ;  the 
plague  struck  down  her  aunt,  when  the  war-paint  was 
changed  to  sorrowful  black  at  the  fatal  camps  of 
Chcbucto ;  and  now,  the  bird  she  nourished  for  many 
seasons,  the  dearest  of  her  love-treasures,  has  left  her, 
struck  down  by  treachery  and  ill-requited  love.  He 
who  has  done  this  wrong  lives  happily,  unpunished 
by  an  avenging  God,  while  she  who  died  in  the  Chris- 
tian's faith  seeks  with  dying  breath  to  screen  him  from 
the  just  vengeance  of  man.     Shall  he  escape?     No! 

"  Rather  let  Ulalie  hold  the  faith  of  her  fathers,  be- 
heving  in  Kesoulk^  the  merciful,  the  loving,  the  benev- 
olent Creator ;  in  Mundoo^  the  spirit  of  evil ;  in  the 
faith  that  teaches  us  to  be  just,  to  be  kind  to  our  friends, 
to  avenge  their  wrongs  and  our  own. 

"  Hear  my  oath,  spirit  of  Rosalie,  and  forgive,  if 
the  love  which  I  bear  for  you  cannot  change  my 
purpose.  Ulalie,  daughter  of  kings ;  Ulalie,  prin- 
cess of  a  race  of  warriors ;  Ulalie,  prophetess  of  the 
Abenaqui,  pledges  herself  to  this  purpose.  By  the 
memories  of  her  past  love,  never  to  return  ;  by  the  tor- 
ments of  love  deceived,  suffered  by  her  who  sleeps  be- 
low ;  by  Kesoulk^  the  war-god  ;  by  Him  to  whom  the 

♦  Mary.  f  Jesus  TLrist. 


1 


iJ     -^:'    < 


i     {'.■liiM 


iiii 


!i 


III   ^ 


ill 


184 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


Christian  bends  the  knee,  —  the  false  lover  shall  meet 
the  doom  declared  to  him  by  the  fates,  as  read  in  the 
stars  by  the  woman  who  loved  him.  For  this  the 
rapier  of  the  Black  Robe  shall  gleam  in  the  press  of 
battle ;  the  carbine  of  the  brother  hurl  its  messengers 
of  death  ;  the  axe  of  the  White  Bear  break  the  hedges 
of  sharp  steel ;  and  the  arrows  of  Ulalie  find  the  hearts 
of  the  Anglasheowe.     I  have  sworn  it." 

And  rising,  she  sought  the  lodges  of  her  tribe ;  and 
from  that  hour  she  abode  no  more  with  civilized  man. 


11 


III  ill 


iiiili:: 


,  .  ;  I  .nil  |i-,i!ib.!i 
M!l,!.i  CMII': 


liiiiiii 


■iliii;:;M:;l;^:if:: 


'^••MrrT^ 


185 


CHAPTER    XX. 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 


THE  summer  passed  away,  and  the  grass  stood 
green  and  tall  on  the  grave  of  Rosalie,  and 
on  a  little  mound  beside  it,  —  for  her  babe  did  not 
long  survive  her,  —  when  Durel  determined  to  revisit 
Port  la  Joie,  and  went  gliding  down  "  La  Riviere  de  la 
Nord-Est,"  as  the  Hillsborough  was  christened  by 
its  French  discoverers.  Passing  through  the  broad 
meadows  which  stretched  back  for  rods,  until  termi- 
nated by  the  green  wall  of  the  primeval  forest,  stopping 
an  hour  or  two  at  the  armed  stockades,  whose  ruins  are 
still  to  be  seen  on  the  northern  bank,  he  landed  at  the 
rude  jetty  at  Port  la  Joie,  just  as  the  sun  cast  his  last 
rays  on  the  placid  surface  of  the  harbor. 

Far  out  between  the  cliffs  of  red  sandstone  that  stand 
on  either  side  of  the  harbor's  mouth,  his  keen  eye 
caught  the  flash  of  dipping  paddles,  as  their  spray 
reflected  the  gleams  of  the  setting  sun.  One  after 
another,  five  canoes  sped  up  the  glassy  haven,  borne 
on  by  the  swift  tides  and  the  sinewy  arms  of  their  octu- 
pants.  As  they  drew  nearer,  Durel  saw  that  two 
Europeans  were  among  them,  one  wearing  the  long 
black  robes  of  a  priest ;  and  he  immediately  conjec- 
tured that  the  long-expected  chief  and  Du  Thet,  his 
t>rother  in  arms,  had  at  last  arrived. 


1 86 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


U  ;    ' 


i'lii  l.^ 


'ii.'ii' 


iff 


iiililiiiiiii!! 


lie  was  right;  for  the  first  canoe  was  the  Rosalie, 
and  contained  L'Our  Blanc,  Du  Thct,  and  Hubert, 
besides  four  stout  braves  belonging  to  the  families 
who  occupied  the  other  canoes.  Swiftly  the  long,  grace- 
ful bark  glided  in  among  the  dirty  fishing  vessels,  and 
clumsy  boats,  and  pirogues,  which  were  moored  to  the 
jetty.  The  careful  hand  of  Hubert  caught  the  rough 
logs,  and  prevented  a  collision  which  might  injure  the 
frail  prow  of  the  Rosalie,  which  was  quickly  moored; 
after  which  her  occupants  landed,  Du  Thet  and  the 
chief  last  of  all. 

Durel  saw  that  they  did  not  recognize  him,  and, 
stepping  forward,  offered  his  hand  to  the  Jesuit. 
''  You  do  not  remember  me,  then  ? "  said  he. 

"What!  is  this  Durel?  the  Sea  Gull,  the  terror  of 
the  English  fisliermen,  and  the  ally  of  the  Abenaquis," 
said  Du  Thet,  shaking  him  warmly  by  the  hand. 

"The  White  Bear  is  glad  to  see  an  old  comrade;" 
and  the  tall,  erect  form  of  L'Our  Blanc  seemed  to  the 
eyes  of  Durel  to  have  defied  the  ravages  of  time,  whik> 
his  hand  was  almost  crushed  by  the  grasp  of  the  war- 
chief. 

"  This  is  Hubert  De  Courcy,  my  adopted  child, 
whom  you  will  recollect  as  the  boy  who  sailed  with 
you  on  our  voyage  to  the  rendezvous  at  Chebucto." 

He  looked  at  Hubert  with  interest.  In  age  scarcely 
nineteen,  he  was  still  strongly  made,  yet  finely  pro- 
portioned ;  and  his  curly,  brown  locks  were  brushed 
back  from  a  high,  massive  forehead,  beneath  which  a 
pair  of  dark  eyes  gave  interest  to  features  expressive 
of  strength  and  character,  rather  than  regular  or  pleas- 
ing.    He  shook  hands  with  Durel  warmly  ;  and  for  a 


A    LIFE    FOR    A    LIFE. 


187 


e  Rosalie, 
d  Hubert, 
le  families 
ong,  grace- 
cssels,  and 
ored  to  the 
the  rough 
t  injure  the 
.ly  moored; 
bet  and  the 

e  him,  and, 
the    Jesuit.  . 

:1  he. 

;he  terror  of 

Abenaquis," 

3  hand. 
J  comrade;" 
eemed  to  the 
)f  time,  while 
of  the  war- 


moment  a  boyish  smile  lit  up  his  face,  tanned  by  ex- 
posure, and  then  became  grave  and  thoughtful. 

*'  Do  you  know  where  Ulalie  is  now?"  inquired  Du 
Thet. 

"  She  is  at  Tracadie,  where  she  has  been  nursing  a 
sick  friend  of  yours." 

"  A  sick  friend  of  mine  !    I  do  not  understand  you, 
Durel." 

"  Prepare  yourself  for  the  worst,  old  comrade,  for  I 
have  sad  tidings  for  you  and  the  boy  by  your  side." 

"  Speak  !  I  am  always  ready  to  hear  of  misfortune," 
said  Du  Thet,  bitterly. 
"  Let  us  hear  at  once,"  said  Hubert,  mournfully. 
"  A  few  weeks  ago,"  continued  Durel,  "  I  was  fish- 
ing off  the  harbor,  when  I  was  boarded  by  an  English 
vessel,  from  which  two  passengers  were  transferred  to 
my  boat,  —  a  young  woman,  and  a  babe  of  a  few 
weeks.  The  lady  knew  me,  although  many  years 
had  passed  since  I  had  seen  her,  as  she  stood  by  her 
brother's  side  on  the  little  island  where  we  parted  last. 
She  had  been  deserted  by  her  lover,  and  sought  pity 
and  consolation  among  her  own  people ;  but  a  fever 
seized  her,  and  all  we  could  do  was  useless :  she  was 
buried  three  weeks  ago." 

All  v\'ere  silent ;   but  tears  stood  in  the  eyes  of  Hu- 
bert, until  Du  Thet's  voice,  husky  and  tremulous,  said 
slowly,  "  Let  us  go." 
"Where?"  said  DureL 

Du  Thet  pointed  towards  the  source  of  the  river. 
"  I  have  just  come  dowm,  and  you  are  all  weary. 
Let  us  start  to-morrow,"  said  Durel.     "  To-night  we 
will  sleep  at  the  cabaret  of  Monsieur  Tricot." 


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1 88 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


Hubert  stood  looking  toward  the  mouth  of  the 
harbor,  his  mind  full  of  sad  and  bitter  thoughts; 
but  as  he  was  about  to  turn  away,  he  saw  a  canoe 
approaching. 

"  Another  canoe,"  said  he  to  L'Our  Blanc.  *'  Are 
our  people  all  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  taciturn  Indian ;  and  the  group 
passed  up  the  street,  and  entered  the  tap-room  of  the 
cabaret  of  Monsieur  Tricot,  who  hastened  to  welcome 
them,  and  to  provide  for  their  wants. 

As  they  sat  awaiting  their  repast,  two  Micmacs  en- 
tered the  room,  and  with  them  a  captive,  an  English 
soldier ;  while  at  their  belts  hung  several  scalps,  one, 
at  least,  freshly  taken. 

With  these  worthies  L'Our  Blanc  held  a  long  con- 
versation, and  learned  that  they  had  surprised  their 
captive,  who  was  a  soldier  of  the  garrison  at  Halifax, 
while  wandering  with  his  comrade  in  the  woods  ;  and 
pointing  to  his  belt,  the  warrior  said,  "The  other  did 
not  escape  ; "  all  of  which  created  much  admiration 
on  the  part  of  the  fishermen,  who  filled  the  room  with 
strange  oaths  and  loud  expressions  of  approval,  while 
a  dozen  glasses  of  brandy  were  offered  to  the  victori- 
ous braves  by  the  bystanders. 

Just  then  the  hostess  announced  that  the  supper  was 
ready  for  the  party,  who  gladly  lefl  the  noisy  crowd, 
and  were  soon  seated  at  the  table,  where  a  meal  await- 
ed them,  which,  if  not  delicate,  was  certainly  plenteous ; 
and  laying  aside  their  weapons,  they  ate,  talking  but 
little,  but  thinking  of  sorrowful  and  bitter  experiences. 
Suddenly  the  hoarse  laughter  of  the  half-drunken  sail- 
ors rose  wildly  on  the  air,  increasing  until  it  seemed  as 


A   LIFE    FOR   A   LIFE. 


189 


)f   the 

ughts ; 
canoe 


supper  was 
oisy  crowd, 
meal  await- 
\f  plenteous ; 
,  talking  but 
experiences. 

Irunken  sail- 
it  seemed  as 


if  their  orgies  shook  the  solid  rafters ;  and  above  it 
rose  the  war*cry  of  the  Abenaqui,  and  cries  for 
mercy. 

Du  Thet  drew  his  rapier  and  rushed  out,  followed 
by  the  rest.  A  strange  tableau  met  their  eyes,  ludi- 
crous even  in  its  horror.  One  of  the  warriors  whom 
tlicy  had  left  drinking,  intoxicated  to  the  verge  of  mad- 
ness, held  by  the  forelock  his  unfortunate  captive,  who 
knelt  before  him,  asking  a  respite  from  the  fatal  knife 
suspended  above  his  head,  and  howling  for  mercy. 
Du  Thet  seized  the  uplifted  arm,  and  the  Indian  turned 
in  fury  upon  him. 

"Who  dares  hold  the  hand  of  Le  Loup?"  said  he, 
fiercely ;  but  his  eyes  fell  before  the  calm,  stern  glance 
of  the  Jesuit. 

"  He  who  speaks  the  words  of  Kchi  Nlxkam  "  (the 
Great  Spirit),  answered  Du  Thet. 

An  explanation  ensued,  in  which  it  appeared  that 
one  Jerome  Le  Blanc,  the  captain  of  a  fishing  vessel, 
and  an  inveterate  enemy  of  the  English,  had  made  the 
Indians,  if  possible,  more  intoxicated  than  he  was  him- 
self, until  they  were  filled  with  a  mutual  admiration, 
and  embraced  each  other,  to  the  great  satisfaction  of 
all  present. 

"  What  will  Monsieur  Le  Loup  do  with  his  pris- 
oner?" said  Le  Blanc,  with  the  indescribable  polite- 
ness of  a  man,  who,  conscious  that  he  is  very  drunk, 
still  imagines  that  he  has  perfect  control  of  himself, 
and  tries  to  preserve  it. 

"  Le  Loup  will  keep  him  to  work  for  his  squaw. 
No !  he  will  sell  him  to  his  white  friend  for  beads, 
powder,  and  fire-water.* 


)» 


H^ 


.1 1 


lis 


-',  ■* 


190 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


"  I  have  an  idea,  Monsieur  Le  Loup.  I  have  no 
use  for  your  captive,  but  I  have  long  desired  to  see  an 
Englishman  scalped  ;  here  is  an  opportunity." 

"  It  shall  be  as  my  brother  wishes,"  answered  the 
staggering  warrior,  with  a  praiseworthy  spirit  of  ac- 
commodation, while  the  spectators  roared  with  laugh- 
ter, and  gathered  around  the  terrified  soldier,  whose 
cries  soon  brought  Du  Thet  to  his  assistance,  as  we 
have  related. 

"  So  you  see.  Sir  Priest,  that  you  are  in  the  wrong 
to  interfere,"  said  the  Breton,  insolently. 

Du  Thet  turned  to  the  Micmac.  "  I  will  give  you 
the  price  of  two  scalps  for  him,"  said  he. 

"  Le  Loup  has  promised  the  captain,  and  cannot 
speak  in  two  ways,"  answered  he. 

"  Le  Loup  seems  to  have  forgotten  the  fight  at  Dart- 
mouth, and  who  it  was  that  saved  his  life  when  the 
knee  of  his  foe  was  planted  on  his  breast.  Du  Thet 
demands  the  prisoner." 

"  It  is  well ;  but  Le  Loup  will  never  forget  that  he 
who  gave  him  life  again,  also  darkened  his  life  with 
the  stain  of  a  broken  promise,  which  has  destroyed  his 
love  for  him  who  saved.  He  gives  a  life  for  a  life. 
He  owes  nothing  more." 

Du  Thet  beckoned  to  the  soldier  to  rise ;  to  his 
party,  to  follow ;  but  Le  Blanc  and  his  friends  gath- 
ered around  with  savage  cries  of  insult  and  disappoint- 
ment. L'Our  Blanc  drew  his  heavy  hatchet,  Durel 
and  Hubert  their  Spanish  knives,  and  the  long  rapier 
of  Du  Thet  kept  a  broad,  open  space  between  them 
and  their  drunken  assailants.  Le  Loup  sat  there 
scowling  with  hate,  on  a  rude  bench  against  the  side 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 


191 


lave  no 
0  see  an 

2red  the 
it  of  ac- 
h  laugh- 
r,  whose 
e,  as  we 

le  wrong 

give  you 

^d  cannot 

t  at  Dart- 
when  the 
Du  Thet 

et  that  he 

s  life  with 

itroyed  his 

for  a  hfe. 

se ;  to  his 
ends  gath- 
disappoint- 
het,  Durel 
long  rapier 
ween  thetn 
p  sat  there 
1st  the  side 


f 


of  the  room.  But  the  four  friends,  with  their  new 
acquisition,  reached  the  street  unmolested,  and  walked 
quickly  down  to  the  camp  of  their  Indian  allies,  where 
they  passed  the  remainder  of  the  night. 

As  they  sat  by  the  camp  fire,  L'Our  Blanc  said,  after 
musing  a  while,  "  The  Black  Robe  has  made  himself 
an  enemy  of  a  friend,  and  such  an  enemy  is  more  to 
be  feared  than  a  dozen  ordinary  foes." 

"  It  is  the  will  of  Kesoulk.  He  will  protect  me  as 
long  as  it  is  his  pleasure  ; "  and  the  Jesuit  turned  to  the 
soldier. 
"Your  name?  "  he  said,  in  fair  English. 
"  My  name  is  George  Thompson.  I  am  a  soldier 
of  the  garrison  at  Halifax.  You  have  saved  my  life, 
and  made  an  enemy  thereby ;  in  me  you  shall  have 
an  attached  servant  or  a  faithful  friend." 

"  I  choose  the  friend ;  for  I  have  need  of  all  the 
friends  I  can  obtain." 
"  Then  I  am  yours  to  the  death." 
Each  lay  down  to  rest,  until,  in  the  early  morning, 
the  camps  were  struck  and  the  light  canoes  loaded, 
which  at  sunrise  bore  the  whole  party  up  the  winding 
channel  of  La  Riviere  du  la  Nord-Est.  In  silence 
they  sailed  up  that  noble  river,  until  the  stream  grew 
narrow,  winding  among  broad  meadows,  amid  whose 
rank  sedge  and  rushes  the  black  duck  concealed  her 
tender  brood,  the  snipe  found  a  welcome  haunt,  and 
on  whose  banks  the  tall  heron  and  awkward  bittern 
lazily  awaited  their  finny  prey. 

In  silence  I  say,  —  the  Jesuit  and  Hubert,  because 
they  were  sad ;  L'Our  Blanc  and  his  braves,  from 
habit ;  Thompson,  because  he  had  no  one  to  talk  with  ; 


'  ''  m 


^111 

HI 


■   Pi 


I 


192 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


and  the  women,  from  fear  or  sympathy.  At  last  the 
party  landed,  and  encamped  near  the  head  of  the 
river ;  but  Durel  led  his  friends  through  forest  paths 
until  they  came  to  the  tranquil  bay  and  quiet  settle- 
ment of  Tracadie. 

There  they  were  greeted  by  Cliristine  and  many 
others,  with  joy  at  present  meeting ;  with  tears,  grate- 
ful tribute  to  the  dead ;  with  hospitable  offers  of  rest 
and  food  ;  but  these  they  refused. 

"  There  are  a  few  moments  of  daylight  left,"  said 
Du  Thet :  "  take  us  to  Rosalie." 

Christine  gave  a  glance  of  mute  inquiry  to  Durel, 
who  replied  by  a  silent  nod  of  assent ;  and  rising,  she 
led  the  way  to  the  little  burial-ground  beneath  the 
shadows  of  the  pines,  and  they  stood,  in  silent  grief, 
over  the  grave  of  Rosalie. 

There  Du  Thet  heard  the  story  of  her  wrongs,  her 
sufferings,  her  death,  as  described  in  preceding  chap- 
ters ;  and  his  face  grew  stern  and  pale  with  sorrow, 
and  the  thought  of  vengeance.  He  drew  his  rapier 
slowly  from  its  sheath,  and  knelt  above  the  little  cross 
at  the  head  of  the  grassy  mound.  Hubert  drew  his 
knife,  and  knelt  also.  L*Our  Blanc,  axe  in  hand,  fol- 
lowed their  example. 

"  We  swear,"  said  Du  Thet,  "  that  we,  the  instru- 
ments of  a  just  vengeance,  will  visit  upon  the  author 
of  all  the  misery  of  her  who  sleeps  below,  measure 
for  measure,  and  life  for  life,  by  the  mothers  who  bore 
us,  the  king  we  serve,  the  steel  of  our  weapons,  and 
Him  who  reigns  over  all."  f 

r  And  all  answered,  "We  swear."    ;  ;  * -.      * 

"  Swear  not  at  all,"  said  Father  Jerome,  who,  ap- 


A   LIFE    FOR   A   LIFE. 


193 


last  the 
I  of  the 
3st  paths 
let  settle- 

[id  many 

TS,  grate- 
rs of  rest 

left,"  said 


rrongs,  her 
ding  chap- 
th  sorrow, 
his  rapier 
little  cross 
t  drew  his 
n  hand,  fol- 

,  the  instru- 
the  author 
w,  measure 
rs  who  bore 
'capons,  and 


preaching,  had  heard  the  last  words,  and  guessed  their 
import ;  "  above  all,  swear  not  that  you  will  take  from 
our  common  Judge  his  attribute  of  our  common  Aven- 
ger. She  whom  you  mourn,  whom  you  promise  to 
avenge,  with  her  last  breath  conjured  you  to  leave  him 
with  God." 

Du  Thet  listened  with  patience,  but  slowly  answered, 
"  We  have  sworn  ;  "  and  rising,  they  went  back  to  the 
house  of  Christine,  and  ate  heartily  of  the  food  she 
placed  before  them ;  after  which,  she  showed  them 
the  few  effects  left  by  Rosalie,  and  among  them  her 
writing-case.  In  it  were  the  little  dagger,  a  few  trin- 
kets, a  rouleau  of  gold,  and  a  few  papers.  Du  Thet 
opened  one  of  the  latter :  it  proved  to  be  the  horoscope 
of  Thorncliffe,  of  which  Rosalie  had  sent  a  copy  by 
the  captain  of  the  fishing  schooner.  He  read  slowly, 
and  handed  it  to  Hubert,  who  started,  and  then  said 
fiercely,  "  I  trembled  at  the  words  of  the  good  priest, 
but  the  fates  have  ordained  us  as  her  avenger.  Hear ! " 
and  he  read  slowly,  — 

^' '  The  querent  shall  fall  in  love  for  the  first  time  in 
his  twenty-seventh  year. 

" '  The  querent  shall  be  threatened  with  great  danger 
through  this  love  during  his  thirtieth  year.  He  shall 
escape  this  should  he  prove  true  to  himself  and  to  his 
word. 

" '  Should  death  overtake  the  querent  at  this  time,  he 
will  fall  by  violence  and  in  battle.' 

"  Who  shall  obstruct  the  work  of  fate,  the  resistless 
decrees  of  destiny?  A  voice  from  the  grave  calls  Eu- 
gene Thoniclifle  to  his  doom,  and  who  on  earth  shall 
save  him  from  us,  the  chosen  ministers  of  justice  ?  " 


•>■  ^■i 


If  i 


194 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


Father  Jerome,  just  entering,  had  heard  the  last  part 
of  the  conversation  ;  and  even  he  was  impressed  with 
the  idea  that  the  injury  done  to  one  so  trusting  and 
lovely,  was  to  be  avenged  by  mortals,  whom  the  hand 
of  fate  might  not  allow  to  wait  the  sure  vengeance  of 
the  Judge  of  all. 

Weeks  lengthened  into  months,  and  still  the  Jesuit 
lingered  amid  the  scenes  of  the  little  settlement ;  and 
the  fall  came,  bringing  death  to  leaves  and  flowers,  and 
messengers  who  brought  to  Du  Thet  arms  and  muni- 
tions to  be  given  to  the  faithful  warriors  of  the  forest. 

Then  winter  covered  the  earth  with  crested  drifts, 
the  rivers  with  icy  chains,  the  broad  ocean  with  piles 
of  many-hued  and  many-shaped  ice-crafts ;  and  again 
the  pleasures  of  the  chase,  the  study  of  books  and  men, 
and  preparations  for  months  of  coming  labor,  occupied 
the  busy  minds  of  Du  Thet,  L'Our  Blanc,  and  Hubert, 
until  the  spring  came,  and  in  due  succession  of  months 
and  days  brought  round  the  first  anniversary  of  the 
death  of  Rosalie. 

It  chanced  that  it  fell  on  Sunday ;  and  all  were 
gathered  in  the  little  chapel.  The  air  without  was 
heavy  with  the  odor  of  the  firs,  and  vocal  with  the 
voices  of  birds,  while  the  sunshint  fell  through  the 
open  windows  on  the  rude  picture  of  the  Crucified, 
above  the  altar. 

As  the  choir  proceeded,  they  took  up  in  its  order 
the  Litany  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  while  the  thoughts 
of  many  went  back  to  the  day  when  one  —  no 
longer  with  them  —  had  joined  in  the  chant,  bearing 
to  heaven,  in  its  sublime  apostrophes,  the  passion- 
ate entreaties  of  a  broken  heart ;  and,  joining  in  the 


A   LIFE   FOR    A   LIFE. 


195 


last  part 
sed  with 
ting  and 
the  hand 
eance  of 

he  Jesuit 
lent;  and 
wers,  and 
ind  muni- 
le  forest, 
ited  drifts,    . 
with  piles 
and  again 
s  and  men, 
r,  occupied 
nd  Hubert, 
[I  of  months 
sary  of  the 

,d    all  were 
A^ithout  was 


)  in  its  order 
the  thoughts 
^n  one  — n^^ 
bant,  bearing 
the  passion- 
joining  in  the 


strain,   they   sang  with   solemn   pathos  the   Savior's 
sorrows. 

Then,  strange  to  say,  above  the  deep,  strong  current 
of  harmony  rose  a  silvery  voice,  as  of  one  in  sorrow, 
yet  not  without  hope,  mingling  with  low  moans  and 
child-like  cries  of  weariness  and  pain. 

Christine  fainted,  and  was  carried  home ;  Du  Thet 
Diirel,  Fiddle,  and  Hubert  turned  pale,  and  gravely 
looked  at  each  other,  yet  said  nothing :  and  the  services 
ended.  But  as  the  people  went  homeward,  they  talked 
in  low  and  fearful  tones  with  each  other ;  and  Christine 
said,  when  she  came  to  herself,  that  Rosalie  had  left 
her  grave  to  sing  again  the  Litany  of  the  Sacred 
Heart. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  for  generations  after,  the  chapels 
of  the  Isle  of  St.  Jean,  were,  with  but  two  exceptions, 
haunted  by  two  voices,  one  of  which  rose  clear  and 
bird-like  above  the  voices  of  the  choir,  while  the  other 
wailed  in  weariness,  or  uttered  low  moanings,  like  a 
babe  in  pain.  When  in  after  years  the  red  cross 
floated  over  the  broad  territories  of  New  France,  a 
worthy  bishop,  as  he  visited  his  parishes,  heard  from 
hundreds  of  faithful  and  honest  men  and  women  the 
weird  tale  of  the  twin  voices  of  the  chapels  of  St. 
Jean. 

13 


m 


d\ 


''r     ■'       196 


CHAPTER   XXI. 


THE  CONFESSION  BY  THE  SEA. 


IN  the  stillness  of  that  Sabbath  evening,  good  Father 
Jerome  sat  musing  beneath  the  wide  porch  above 
his  door,  when  he  was  joined  by  Du  Thet ;  and  to- 
gether they  walked  through  the  little  orchard,  under 
the  cool  shadows  of  the  odorous  firs,  through  narrow 
lanes  bordered  by  green  pastures  and  waving  grain 
fields,  past  herds  of  sleek  cattle  and  rows  of  yellow 
flax,  until  they  stood  upon  the  level  sands  of  the 
beach. 

Becween  them  and  the  sea  rose  huge  dunes,  ever 
shifting,  ever  varying,  as  by  turns  the  tempest  hurled 
their  loose  sands  over  the  surrounding  levels,  or  the 
sea  cast  up  supplies  of  yellow  sand  and  many-hued 
pebbles  from  the  sand-bars  and  sunken  ledges  beneath 
its  restless  tides. 

To  the  right  lay  the  woods  which  skirted  the  shore ; 
and  they  knew  that  within  those  dark  forest  shadows 
lay  lakes  of  clear  water  bordered  by  treacherous 
morasses  and  shifting  quicksands,  around  whose 
shores  myriads  of  wild  fowl  found  shelter,  whose 
waters  teemed  with  fish  and  aquatic  birds. 

They  saw  the  break  between  the  sand-hills  where 
lay  the  harbor's  mouth,  and  beyond  the  tranquil  waters 
of  the  Gulf,  which  scarce  broke  as  the  ocean  swell 


THE   CONFESSION   BY  THE   SEA. 


197 


rippled  gently  on  the  opposing  beach ;  and  no  sail 
appeared  on  the  broad  horizon  ;  no  boat  lay  at  anchor 
in  the  harbor,  at  least  in  sight ;  no  human  habitation 
or  wreath  of  curling  smoke,  rude  fence  or  stranded 
wreck,  spoke  of  the  presence  or  proximity  of  man. 
They  were  alone  with  God. 

Before  them  lay  the  bay,  skirted  by  red  banks  of 
sandstone,  with  here  and  there  broad  belts  of  reed, 
and  acres  of  low  marsh,  on  whose  edges  the  tall  heron 
waited  for  its  finny  prey,  while  the  bittern  uttered 
her  lonely  cry  from  the  coarse  sedges.  Above  them 
wheeled  the  gray  gulls,  and  the  lesser  tern,  filling 
the  air  with  their  graceful  gyrations  and  hoarse 
screams,  while  flocks  of  dusky  crows  passed  in  scat- 
tered files  over  the  glassy  harbor  to  the  dim  forests 
beyond. 

In  the  west  the  setting  sun  flooded  the  horizon 
with  flames  of  gorgeous  light,  tinting  the  borders  of 
the  scattered  cirri  with  purple  and  gold,  and  casting 
over  the  still  waters  a  spell  of  glory. 

"  '  And  I  saw  as  it  were  a  sea  of  glass  mingled  with 
fire,' "  said  Father  Jerome,  slowly.  "  Since  such  is 
the  glory  of  God  on  earth,  what  must  it  be  in  his 
kingdom  above?  I  love  to  wander  here  at  such  times 
as  this ;  for  it  is  as  if  I  were  alone  on  earth,  like  Adam 
when  first  created,"  continued  he.  "  I  think  of  the 
world  to  come,  the  glories  seen  by  the  beloved  dis- 
ciple, when,  from  the  imprisoning  crags  of  Patmos, 
he  rose  on  the  wings  of  the  unfettered  spirit,  and, 
beneath  the  guidance  of  angels,  saw  the  glory  and 
beauty  of  the  world  eternal,  the  mysteries  of  the  dread 
future,  the  final  scenes  of  the  redemption  of  the  world. 


198 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


Then  I  forget  the  sorrows  of  the  past,  the  cares  of 
the  present,  the  bustle  of  our  struggle  here  for  exist- 
ence ;  and  for  a  while,  at  least,  I  enjoy  a  foretaste  of  the 
tranquil  rest  of  the  hereafter,  and  going  back  again  I 
renew  my  efforts  to  be  worthy  of  that  life  to  come." 

Thus  the  good  priest  discoursed ;  and  Du  Thet 
listened,  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  the  pure 
soul  of  this  humble  priest  over  a  rude  and  scanty 
flock,  who  seemed  to  have  found  happiness  in  a  lot 
at  which  he  himself  would  have  ceaselessly  repined. 

He  thought  with  bitterness  of  the  blasted  hopes  of 
his  youth,  of  his  early  manhood  spent  in  arduous  study 
and  blind  obedience,  of  the  perilous  intrigues  and 
strange  adventures  of  later  years,  and  the  utter  failure 
of  his  most  cherished  hopes  ;  and  he  felt,  as  all  foel  at 
times,  a  restless,  passionate  longing  to  confide  his  sor- 
row and  his  repentance  to  some  sympathizing  ear. 

"  Father  Jerome,  I  would  confess  to  you,"  said  he. 

"  To  me  !  —  and  why?  I  am  not  a  bishop,  and  we 
are  not  in  the  confessional." 

"  Because  you  have  more  of  the  spirit  of  Him  who 
died  to  save,  than  any  I  have  met,  except,  perliaps, 
my  old  friend  who  died  in  trying  to  turn  me  back 
from  my  march  against  the  heretic  at  Chignecto. 
And  here  beneath  the  broad  heavens,  with  none  near 
but  God,  I  ask  you  to  hear  the  story  of  my  life,  and  to 
absolve  me  wherein  I  have  sinned." 

**  I  am  content ;  be  it  as  you  will." 

"  I  was  born  near  L ,  where,  for  centuries,  my 

race  have  lived  and  died,  save  those  who  fell  on 
foreign  shores,  some  who  lingered  in  Algerian  chains, 
and  one  who  died  a  century  ago  at  Mount  Desert, a. 


THE    CONFESSION    BY    THE    SEA. 


199 


Jesuit  like  myself,  —  Gilbert  Du  Thct,  —  whose  name 
I  bear,  whose  example  I  have  followed.  Yet  I 
dreamed  not,  at  eighteen,  of  entering  the  church  ;  but 
was  famed  for  my  love  of  manly  pleasures,  my  skill 
in  arms,  and  my  undaunted  energy.  Loved  by  my 
friends,  and  feared  by  my  enemies,  I  was  happy ;  and 
it  seemed  as  if  my  life  was  to  flow  on  forever  like  a 
tranquil  stream,  until  it  mingled  with  the  ocean  of 
eternity.  I  loved,  and  was  loved  in  return,  as  I  be- 
lieved ;  and  I,  who  had  ever  been  reserved  and  un- 
demonstrative, became  the  most  ardent  of  admirers. 
But  it  does  not  become  me,  who  years  ago  bade  adieu 
to  love  and  all  its  joys,  to  dwell  on  the  day-dreams  of 
the  dead  past.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  my  idol  found 
another  worshipper,  and  that  his  adoration  was  more 
pleasing  than  my  own.  He  did  not  escape  my  ven- 
geance, for  my  rapier  nearly  put  an  end  to  his  exist- 
ence, and  I  was  hunted  like  a  wolf  by  the  officers  of 
justice,  until  he  recovered  his  strength ;  and  1,  disgust- 
ed with  human  frailty  of  affection  and  purpose,  and 
pleased  with  the  life  of  De  Loyola,  the  founder  of  our 
Order,  like  him,  laid  aside  the  sword,  to  become  a 
soldier  of  the  church  militant. 

"  For  many  years  I  have  toiled  here,  preaching 
among  the  Souriquois,  and  doing  all  that  lay  in  my 
power  to  insure  the  triumphs  of  our  holy  faith.  To 
this  end,  I  believed  the  sovereignty  of  France  neces- 
sary, and  all  my  energies  have  been  devoted  to  the 
defeat  of  all  English  and  heretic  enterprises. 

"  I  have  seen  blood  run  like  water  in  battle ;  the 
pestilence  shatter  the  strength  of  armies,  and  convert 
the  cafnpg  pf  our  allies  into  deserted  burial-places ; 


I 


srn 


200 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


and  in  my  z'^al  I  have  called  the  dead  from  their  rest, 
and  sought  knowledge  of  the  future  by  means  for- 
bidden. They  told  me  truly  —  and  well  I  understood 
the  omen  that  warned  me — that  the  real  basis  of 
political  strength  in  this  New  World  was  in  the 
freedom,  the  bravery,  the  wisdom  of  the  people. 

"  But  in  vain  I  attempted  to  impress  this  upon  our 
leaders.  Some  called  me  a  dreamer;  others  heard  in 
polite  indifterence,  and  did  nothing ;  while  of  those 
who  believed,  few  remain  alive.  And  I,  who  have 
slain  in  battle  scores  of  our  enemies,  who  have  risked 
my  soul's  safety  in  forbidden  search  of  knowledge, 
who  have  given  way  to  the  promptings  of  ambition, 
pride,  and  revenge,  ask  from  you  absolution  of  my 
past  guilt." 

Father  Jerome  stood  still  a  moment,  and  then  said, 
"  Have  you  no  thought  of  sin  to  be  committed,  no 
purposes  of  sin  to  be  consummated?  Have  you  for- 
given as  you  desire  forgiveness?" 

A  slight  flush  passed  over  the  pale  face  of  Du  Thet, 
as  he  answered,  '*  I  know  what  you  refer  to ;  but  I 
may  not  swerve  from  my  purpose.  I  have  sworn,  and 
must  fulfil  my  oath.  The  justice  of  Heaven  will  be 
visited  on  a  wretch  unfit  to  live,  and  we  are  but  the 
instruments  of  God's  vengeance." 

"  Brother !  beware  of  these  wiles  of  the  tempter,  and 
recall  your  rash  determination  to  fulfil  a  vow  wrong 
in  its  inception,  whose  stern  purpose  —  if  we  may 
believe  our  ears  —  has  disturbed  the  repose  of  her 
who,  dying,  forgave,  and  directed  you  too,  to  forgive. 
Remember  the  voices  of  the  chapel,  whose  well- 
known  tones  thrilled  us  all  to-day,  and  leave  to  God 


■ni^==«ps^jt 


THE   CONFESSION   BY   THE    SEA. 


20 1 


his  prerogative  of  Judge  and  Avenger  —  *  forgive  and 
be  forgiven.' " 

The  pale  face  of  Du  Thet  was  visibly  convulsed : 
the  stern  lips  quivered  for  a  moment ;  but  his  strong 
will  conquered,  and  he  said,  "  It  may  not  be.  I  will 
not  break  my  oath." 

"  Then,  brother,  for  the  sins  of  which  thou  hast 
truly  repented  and  confessed  thyself,  may  the  Lord 
grant  thee  full  forgiveness.  And  for  all  events  of  thy 
future  life,  may  his  Spirit  enlighten  thee,  and  lead 
thee  through  a  life  of  pious  works  to  an  eternity  of 
bliss." 

They  walked  home  beneath  the  shadows  of  the 
fragrant  woods,  and  parted  with  a  mutual  blessing  at 
the  door  of  the  good  priest's  cottage. 

At  Fidele's,  Du  Thet  found  Ulalie  awaiting  him. 

"  Ulalie  has  a  request  to  make  to  her  father,"  said 
she. 

"  Speak  on  ;  if  right,  you  shall  not  be  denied." 

"  She  who  sleeps  had  a  little  knife  —  a  present 
from  her  guardian.  Ulalie  would  have  it,  to  remind 
her  of  her  lost  darling." 

Du  Thet  went  to  the  little  escritoire^  and  took  from 
it  the  tiny  dagger,  drawing  it  from  its  sheath  of  velvet 
and  silver.  Even  by  the  dim  light  of  the  smouldering 
fire,  its  mother-of-pearl  hilt  and  silver  mountings,  set 
with  garnets,  reflected  rays  of  many-hued  light. 

"  It  is  best.  Father  Augustine  wished  that  it  might 
never  shed  human  blood.  If  I  kept  it,  it  would  impel 
me  to  vengeance ;  with  Ulalie  his  wish  will  be  ful- 
filled," he  muttered,  as  he  gave  it  to  Ulalie,  who  placed 


111  I 


202 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


il!^ 


it  in  her  belt ;  and  simply  thanking  him,  she  glided 
into  the  shadows  of  the  darkness  without. 

And  the  summer  passed  away  like  the  spring,  save 
that  Hubert,  grave  end  sad,  hunted  continually 
alone,  or  with  the  English  captive,  who  followed  him 
and  Du  Thet  as  faithfully  as  a  well-trained  hound. 
Ulalie,  too,  went  often  to  the  woods  ;  and  Du  Thet,  see- 
ing her  great  love  of  archery,  brought  her,  on  his  re- 
turn from  a  trip  to  Louisburg,  a  splendid  bow  of  rose- 
wood, backed  with  whale-bone  and  tipped  with  silver. 

She  was  profuse  in  her  thanks,  and  ceaselessly  prac- 
tised with  the  splendid  quiver  of  shafts  which  accom- 
panied it ;  and  among  all  the  warriors  of  the  tribe, 
none  could  excel  her  in  accuracy  of  aim,  although  in 
strength  of  arm  she  was  of  course  deficient. 

And  so  she  was  commonly  clad  in  her  huntress 
garb,  and  walked  like  Diana,  bow  in  hand,  quiver  at 
shoulder,  with  the  dagger  of  Rosalie  glittering  in  the 
beaded  baldric  at  her  waist.  So  that  the  warriors 
gave  her  a  new  name  Ulali-ak-A-abe  (Ulalie  of  the 
Bow). 

But  none  knew  her  stern  purpose  of  vengeance,  for 
well  she  kept  her  secret ;  and  all  wondered  that  she,  so 
gentle  in  the  past,  should  now  fearlessly  hunt  the  fierce 
loup-cervier  and  the  shaggy  bear  with  her  keen  shafts, 
while  so  good  a  hunter  as  the  White  Bear  supplied 
her  lodge  with  plenty. 

And  time  rolled  on,  bringing  change  and  death, 
and  the  hours  appointed  by  the  Fates, — the  day  of 
Nemesis,  the  Avenger. 


203 


CHAPTER   XXII. 


THORNCLIFFE. 


AFTER  a  long  cruise,  the  schooner,  in  which 
Rosalie  had  made  her  last  voyage,  returned  to 
Boston,  laden  with  fish  ;  and  her  stout  skipper  in  due 
time  delivered  the  little  packet,  intrusted  to  him  by 
Rosalie,  into  the  hands  of  Thorncliffe  himself,  who 
colored  as  he  beheld  the  well-remembered  handwriting, 
and  thrusting  the  packet  into  his  pocket,  went  slowly 
up  the  wharf,  unmindful  of  the  rain,  which  fell  in  tor- 
rents; for  a  north-easter  had  covered  the  sky  with 
leaden-hued  clouds,  and  the  turbid  waves  of  a  swollen 
tide  lashed  the  wooden  piers  and  threw  clouds  of  spray 
far  across  them. 

He  reached  home  wet  and  cold  ;  and  his  wife  came 
with  loving  anxiety  to  scold  him  gently  for  his  care- 
less exposure,  and  to  repair  the  mischief  by  a^ing 
him  to  change  his  clothes.  He  obeyed,  speaking  not 
unkindly,  but  in  a  sad  and  thoughtful  abstraction, 
which  she  could  not  but  perceive. 

*'  What  is  the  matter,  Eugene  ?  "  said  she,  anxiously. 

"Matter?    O,  nothing  of  any  consequence." 

"  There  must  be  something ;  for  I  never  knew  you 
to  be  so  abstracted  and  anxious  before." 

"  It  is  nothing  ;  but  I  have  some  business  to  attend 


IP 


ii 


204 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


to,  and  I  must  be  alone,"  said  he ;  and  Mrs.  Thorn- 
cliffe  left  the  room  silenced,  but  not  convinced. 

He  locked  the  door  and  opened  the  package,  laying 
the  contents  on  the  table  before  him. 

A  package  of  letters  written  by  himself,  dating  from 
the  first  days  of  his  acquaintance  with  Rosalie,  to  the 
day  before  their  final  separation  ;  a  lock  of  short  wavy 
hair,  tied  with  a  tiny  knot  of  ribbon ;  a  little  book  of 
songs ;  a  ring  of  gold,  and  lastly  a  note  from  Rosalie. 
It  was  short,  and  yet  it  spoke  volumes  of  reproof  and 
loving  despair. 

"  I  love,  I  buffer,  I  forgive.  Death  will  soon  teach 
me  to  forget." 

The  tiny  note  fell  from  his  hands,  and  he  bowed  his 
head  in  remorse  and  grief  for  his  sin ;  and  in  his 
heart  the  old  love  rose  like  the  tides  of  the  river 
below.  Memory  reverted  to  the  scenes  those  letters 
recalled,  the  circumstances  under  which  they  were 
written,  when  his  word  was  truth  itself,  his  honor  un- 
tarnished, and  he  held  his  life  at  the  service  t>f  his  king 
—  his  ambition  and  avarice  subservient  to  the  Right. 

He  remembered  the  long  expeditions  on  dangerous 
service,  from  which  he  had  despatched  notes,  laden 
with  devotion  and  self-sacrifice,  to  the  little  maiden, 
whose  tears  had  since  left  their  mark  on  each  page 
and  line ;  and  Rosalie  was  almost  avenged  in  the 
agony  of  his  remorse,  the  terrible  consciousness  of  his 
own  treachery  and  disgrace. 

But  another  packet  caught  his  eye ;  directed  long 
ago,  it  seemed,  for  the  ink  had  faded.  The  direction 
was  simply,  "  Eugene."  He  opened  it  hurriedly. 
Before  him  lay  a  chart  of  his  destiny ;  and  he  remem- 


T 


thornclifI^e. 


205 


bcred  her  promise,  made  to  him  long  ago,  to  foretell 
the  events  of  the  future  ;  and  the  loving  eyes,  full  of 
wen  d,  grave  enthusiasm,  as  she  relapsed  for  a  moment 
into  the  dreamy  mood  he  had  seen  her  assume  vv^hen 
speaking  of  the  knowledge  of  the  mystics;  while  bitter 
contempt  of  himself  tortured  his  soul,  as  he  thought 
of  his  words  to  her  on  that  day,  in  answer  to  her 
promise :  "  If  your  art  be  correct,  you  will  find  no 
presage  of  my  unfaithfulness." 

Then  he  read  slovvjly  the  contents  of  the  horoscope, 
and  carefully  folding  it,  placed  it,  with  the  rest  of  the 
contents  of  the  packet,  in  a  drawer  of  his  desk,  and 
then  sat  in  the  shadows  of  the  gathering  night,  an 
unhappy  and  hopeless  man ;  for  he  knew  but  too 
well  the  justness  of  his  doom ;  the  dictates  of  his 
own  conscience  approved  his  sentence. 

Happy  is  the  man  who  walks  alone  through  life,  — 
hated  or  scorned  by  his  fellow-creatures  for  his  adhe- 
sion to  some  rule  of  conduct,  of  religious  belief,  or 
political  faith,  —  if  in  his  heart  he  feels  no  pang  of 
conscience.  And  neither  fame,  riches,  nor  domestic 
comfort,  can  make  happy  the  life  of  one  who,  having 
been  true  to  himself  for  years,  makes  one  false  step 
into  an  abyss  of  treachery  and  infamy. 

It  needs  not  that  the  busy  tongues  of  men  utter  the 
stoiy  of  his  wrong,  or  that  punishment  follow  the 
same ;  for  every  man's  heart  has  an  ever-present  moni- 
tor, a  never-sleeping  judge,  an  unfailing  avenger. 

Then  fear  fell  upon  him,  and,  seizing  a  pen,  he  hur- 
riedly sent  in  his  resignation  of  the  commission,  so 
eagerly  sought  a  few  days  ago  ;  and  then,  blushing  at 
his  cowardice,  he  tore  the  missive  into  tatters,  and 


2o6 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


rising,  paced  the  floor,  a  prey  to  remorse  and  self- 
contempt. 

But  with  the  next  year  he  had  joined  the  forces 
under  Lord  Loudon,  and  escaped  shipwreck  and  cap- 
tivity, when  the  veering  storm  drove  the  English  fleet 
from  the  very  jaws  of  death  into  the  open  Gulf; 
and,  spending  the  winter  in  the  society  of  his  wife 
and  children,  he  awaited  the  time  when  the  returning 
summer  should  permit  a  new  campaign. 

"  You  are  thirty  years  old  next  August,  and  I  hoped 
to  have  had  you  at  home  with  me,"  said  his  wife,  a 
night  or  two  before  the  day  on  which  he  was  to  leave 
for  Halifax. 

"  So  I  shall  be,"  said  he,  dreamily ;  "  that  is,  if  I 
live."  Then  he  noted  the  white  lips  and  tearful  eyes 
of  his  wife,  whose  slight  frame  seemed  convulsed  with 
fear  or  apprehension. 

"  Do  not  leave  me,  darling,  this  time,"  she  pleaded, 
"  for  I  am  so  worried  about  you  ;  and  you,  too,  in 
your  sleep,  mutter  of  death  awaiting  you  in  this  cam- 
paign." 

"  O,  nonsense !  "  said  he,  trying  to  speak  lightly ; 
"  you  are  not  going  to  fear  for  me  now,  after  I  have 
escaped  so  often,  darling,  —  are  you?" 

"  I  have  always  feared  for  you,  but  now  I  suffer 
still  more ;  for  until  now  I  have  never  known  you  to 
show  any  signs  of  fear  for  yourself.  I  will  not  try, 
however,  to  turn  you  back  from  doing  your  duty  ;  and 
should  you  fall,  the  only  alleviation  of  my  lot  will  be 
in  the  thought  that  you  died  in  discharge  of  your 
obligation  to  your  country  and  the  right." 

Then  the  conversation  was  changed.    But  when 


■:'\ 


THORNCLIFFE. 


207 


self- 
forces 
i\  cap- 
h  fleet 

Gulf; 
IS  wife 
:urning 

L  hoped 


,w  I  suffer 
>wn  you  to 
ill  not  try, 
duty;  and 
'  lot  will  be 
ge  of  yo"'^ 


they  separated  for  the  last  time,  she  mingled  with  her 
broken  words  of  deep  love  and  long  farewell,  the 
same  noble  expression  of  her  full  confidence  in  his 
loyalty ;  and  he,  turning  away,  as  her  face  became 
indistinguishable  from  the  deck  of  the  transport,  sighed 
as  he  muttered,  "  Poor  Helen  !  she  believes  that  I  go 
to  my  death  for  the  right  and  my  country.  She  shall 
never  know  that  I  went  a  condemned  criminal." 

But  these  presages  of  evil  wore  off  by  degrees,  as 
again  he  trained  his  men  in  their  various  duties,  and 
cared  for  their  comfort,  or  listened  to  their  stories  of 
the  first  siege  of  Louisburg ;  for  several  of  his  men, 
among  them  our  old  acquaintance  Sergeant  Hamlin, 
had  taken  part  in  that  first  great  triumph  of  the 
descendants  of  the  Puritans. 

Amid  the  officers  he  found  old  friends,  who  had 
known  him  at  Minas,  and  in  the  disastrous  cam- 
paigns of  the  previous  year.  So  that  the  days  passed 
pleasantly  until  they  joined  the  rest  of  the  expedition 
lying  at  anchor  in  the  tranquil  waters  of  Bedford 
Basin,  in  the  harbor  of  Halifax. 

Arriving,  they  awaited  the  gathering  of  the  vast 
navy,  with  its  attendant  flotilla  of  transports,  which, 
on  the  28th  of  May,  sailed  for  the  reduction  of  Louis- 
burg. 

Here,  in  the  long  delay  in  landing,  Thornclifte 
niade  himself  as  conspicuous  for  his  cheerfulness  and 
patience,  as  he  did  for  his  bravery  in  the  struggle 
which  ended  in  the  landing  of  the  troops,  and  the 
commencement  of  the  siege.  A  friendship  sprang  up 
between  him  and  Sergeant  Hamlin ;  and  a  vacancy 
occurring,   he  was   enabled   to   procure  the   merited 


2o8 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


promotion  of  his  friend,  whose  faithful  services  had 
been  so  long  overlooked.  To  him  he  talked  more 
freely  than  to  any  o  le  else ;  and  they  became  nearly 
inseparable,  sleeping  side  by  side,  and  as  often  as 
possible  sharing  in  each  other's  duties  and  their  re- 
sulting dangers. 

But  now  we  must  cease  to  anticipate,  and  leave  the 
huge  fleet  riding  at  anchor  oflf  the  beach  of  Gabarus 
Bay ;  while  the  officers  and  men  of  the  fleet  watched, 
with  weary  and  impatient  eyes,  the  long,  heavy  seas, 
as  they  rolled  fiercely  in,  to  break  in  foaming  surges 
upon  the  beach  and  among  the  hidden  reefs,  shielding 
the  city  for  a  time  from  its  assailants,  whose  boats 
might  not  tempt  so  angry  a  sea,  still  less  land  an  army 
under  the  guns  of  the  French  batteries  at  the  little 
Creek  of  Comorin. 


200 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


THE  SUMMONS  TO  LOUISBURG. 


THE  fall  of  '57  had  brought  much  cheering  intelli- 
gence to  Du  Thet  of  the  success  of  French  arms 
and  the  spread  of  French  colonization  ;  for  along  the 
shores  of  Champlain  and  George,  the  lakes  which  lie 
between  the  St.  Lawrence  and  the  Father  of  Waters, 
and  through  the  broad  territories  lying  west  of  the 
Alleghanies,  the  Lilies  had  flourished,  and  the  Red 
Cross  fallen  in  defeat  and  disaster. 

He  himself  had  seen,  from  the  shores  of  the  He 
Royale,  the  proud  fleet  of  England,  which,  under 
Admiral  Halborne,  had  for  weeks  hovered  threaten- 
ingly around  the  harbor  of  Louisburg,  driving  help- 
lessly before  the  tempests,  with  shattering  spars  and 
breaking  cordage ;  their  seamen  throwing  to  the 
furious  surges  the  heavy  guns,  whose  weight  threat- 
ened to  ingulf  the  decks  they  had  so  often  defended ; 
and  one  bark  at  least,  whose  crew  found  skill  use- 
less, and  human  power  unable  to  cope  with  the  war 
of  the  elements,  lying  on  the  reefs  with  her  despair- 
ing crew  fearfully  thinned  by  the  billows  which 
swept  her  decks  every  moment.  And  he,  filled  with 
terrible  joy,  stood  by  the  side  of  L'Our  Blanc,  waiting 
for  the  doomed  fleet  to  share  the  fate  of  the  stranded 
frigate.     He  forgot  for  a  while  the  misfortunes  of  his 


2IO 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


race,  the  omens  of  the  past,  and  saw  the  restless 
surges  come  rolling  in,  the  vessel  vainly  striving  to 
beat  to  seaward,  while  the  fierce  blasts  tore  the  can- 
vas from  the  bolt-ropes,  or  splintered  the  stout  masts 
like  empty  reeds.  Then,  when  scarce  two  miles  of 
seething  foam  intei*vened  between  the  heretic  and 
destruction,  he  had  seen  the  storm  subside,  and  the 
veering  winds  waft  the  shattered  navy  to  the  safe 
waters  of  the  open  sea. 

His  old  forebodings  returned  with  greater  power, 
and  he  ceased  for  a  time  to  stir  up  the  Abenaqui 
as  formerly,  but  spent  the  long  winter  in  peace  in 
the  little  settlements  at  Tracadie.  In  the  early  sum- 
mer, while  the  huge  flocks  of  wild  brant  filled  the 
air  with  their  clamor,  and  the  waters  with  their 
feathered  navies,  a  single  warrior  came  from  the  He 
Royale,  with  startling  news  and  stern  summons.  For 
he  told  that  Boscawen,  with  his  fleet,  and  Amherst 
and  Wolfe,  with  thousands  of  veterans,  had  sailed 
from  Chebucto,  and  lain  for  many  days  oflf  Gabarus 
Bay,  awaiting  a  chance  to  land  ;  that,  for  a  week,  the 
hoarse  surges  had  threatened  death  to  the  invaders, 
and  the  small  garrison  had  built  batteries  at  the  Creek 
of  Comorin  to  repulse  the  landing  party,  which,  on 
the  seventh  day,  passed  the  breakers  in  safety,  and  in 
three  divisions  came  on  to  the  assault. 

Le  Loup — for  it  was  he  — spoke  with  kindling  eyes 
of  that  gallant  fight ;  and  perhaps  you,  too,  reader, 
would  prefer  to  hear  the  rest  of  this  morsel  of  history, 
in  his  own  wild  w^ay,  as  he  told  it  to  Hubert  and  Du 
Thet,  on  the  shore  of  the  harbor,  while  L'Our  Blanc 
listened  with  dilating  nostrils  and  clenched  fingers. 


THE   SUMMONS   TO    LOUISBURG. 


211 


"  We  waited  for  the  boats  of  the  Anglasheowe  as 
they  came  swiftly  over  the  billows,  in  three  files,  with 
their  bayonets  glancing  in  the  sunlight  above ;  their 
oars  lashing  into  foam  the  waves  below ;  and  our 
leaders  said  that  the  white  governor  *  of  Acadia,  and 
another,  led  the  right  and  left ;  while  in  the  centre 
came  he,  who,  like  me,  bears  the  name  of  Le  Loup.f 

"  Then,  as  they  entered  the  breakers,  the  cannon 
spoke  until  the  air  seemed  full  of  the  thunderings  of  a 
summer  tempest,  and  the  English  boats  went  down 
amid  the  white  foam,  already  becoming  red,  as  the 
leaves  change  in  autumn  ;  and  our  rifles  added  to  the 
slaughter,  so  that  on  the  wings  they  gave  way,  or 
drew  back  for  a  while.  But  the  English  Wolfe  went 
forward,  caring  neither  for  cannon  nor  rifle  shot ;  and 
his  men  strode  through  the  surf,  and  over  rocky  steep, 
or  quaking  morass,  over  dead  men  and  bristling 
parapet,  into  the  fatal  battery ;  and  we  fled  to  the 
town,  having  none  to  sustain  or  reenforce  us. 

"  And  on  that  same  night  messengers  were  sent  for 
help,  and  I  among  them  ;  for  the  numbers  of  the  Eng- 
lish are  as  the  sands  of  the  sea,  and  few  are  the  braves 
of  the  Wennooch  and  the  Abenaquis  in  the  city  of  the 
king." 

Le  Loup  was  then  furnished  with  food,  while  Dure! 
hastened  to  the  river,  and  sped  to  Port  la  Joie,  his 
light  canoe  almost  flying  before  the  increasing  breeze  ; 
but  on  arriving  he  found  that  the  news  had  already 
preceded  him.  Du  Thet  gathered  the  Abenaquis 
and  a  few  hunters,  and  followed  Durel  the  next 
morning  to  the  town,  whence,  with  a  few  recruits, 

♦  Governor  Lawrence.  t  General  Wolfe. 


212 


TWICE   TAKEy. 


iill 


making  some  fifty  in  all,  they  set  sail  the  same  night, 
the  Rosalie  leading  the  way,  and  in  her  Ulalie,  wlio 
had  insisted  on  accompanying  them,  although  Dii 
Thet  had  remonstrated  with  her,  and  L'Our  Blanc 
had  forbidden  her. 

*'  I  will  not  turn  back,  for  you  will  have  need  of  me. 
Besides,  how  else  can  you  fulfil  your  oaths,  since  none 
other  save  I  have  seen  the  face  of  the  false  war-chief 
of  the  Anglasheowe?  " 

They  said  no  more.  While  with  bow  in  hand,  and 
quiver  at  shoulder,  she  stood  by  the  bright  fire  on 
the  beach,  painting  her  face  with  streaks  of  red  and 
black,  while  the  garnet-encrusted  haft  of  Rosalie's 
dagger  reflected  the  flames  in  blood-red  rays  of  light, 
until  the  canoes  were  packed.  In  the  gray  of  the 
morning  she  entered  the  canoe  with  the  others,  and, 
taking  a  paddle,  joined  with  them  in  the  war-song  as 
they  swept  down  the  broad  river. 

After  a  rough  passage  they  landed  on  the  Cape 
Breton  shore,  below  the  He  Madame,  where  only  an 
isthmus  intervenes  between  the  calm  lagoons  of  the 
Bras  d'Or  and  the  rougher  v/aters  of  the  Pass  de 
Fronsac.  There,  with  much  labor,  they  bore  their 
canoes  over  morass  and  rocky  banks,  or  through  nar- 
row wood-paths,  until  again  they  launched  them,  and 
paddled  swiftly  through  that  quiet  inland  sea.  Beauti- 
ful is  that  fair  land  in  summer,  with  its  broad  glassy 
seas,  whose  low  banks  are  covered  to  the  white  sands 
or  rocky  ledges  of  the  shore,  with  odorous  pines, 
hardy  firs,  or  shady  beech  and  maple.  But  they 
pressed  onward  as  though   they  sought  death,  and 


THE   SUMMONS   TO   LOUISBURG. 


213 


e  night, 
lie,  who 
Ligh   Du         I 
ir  Blanc        | 

;d  of  mc. 
nee  none 
,var-chicf 

land, and 
it  fire  on 
f  red  and 
Rosalie's 
s  of  light, 
•ay  of  the 
thers,  and, 
rar-song  as 

.  the  Cape 
re  only  an 
,ons  of  the 
he  Pass  de 

bore  their 
hrough  nar- 
d  them,  and 
jea.  Beauti- 
broad  glassy 

white  sands 
orous  pines, 
;.  But  they 
t  death,  and 


heeded  not  those  leafy  temples  of  peace,  in  their  stern 
eagerness  for  battle. 

Among  them  sat  the  Englishman  Thompson  and  his 
ancient  captor  Le  Loup,  who,  a  year  before,  had  given 
him  so  sullenly  to  Du  Thet.  His  pride  had  been 
sorely  wounded  then,  and  now  he  sought  for  revenge ; 
but  Thompson  watched  him  closely,  and  by  his  oft  re- 
peated warnings  had  put  the  Jesuit  upon  his  guard,  so 
that  no  opportunity  i;)resented  itself  to  Le  Loup  of 
avenging  the  fancied  insult.  But  on  the  last  day  of 
their  voyage,  when  a  march  of  a  few  miles  only  inter- 
vened between  them  and  the  beleaguered  city,  and  they 
were  taking  their  packs  from  the  canoes,  previous  to 
deserting  them  for  a  time,  Le  Loup  found,  as  he 
thought,  the  opportunity  he  sougl.t. 

Du  Thet  stood  apart  from  the  rest,  consulting  a  rude 
chart  of  the  surrounding  country,  and  absorbed  in 
thought.  The  stealthy  savage  crept  behind  him,  then 
raised  his  knife  for  the  blow,  coolly  seeking  with  his 
sullen  black  eyes  for  the  seat  of  the  main  arteries  of 
the  neck. 

He  struck,  —  but  another's  arm  dashed  aside  the 
knife,  while  Du  Thet  fell  beneath  the  weight  of  the 
weaponless  hand,  and  Le  Loup,  slipping  from  the  grasp 
of  the  faithful  Englishman,  made  for  the  shore,  and 
jumping  into  the  Rosalie,  pushed  off  into  the  lake, 
while  Thompson  rushed  wildly  after  him,  asking  the 
astonished  party  to  shoot  the  Indian,  who  laughed  de- 
risively. 

Du  Thet  came  dowrn  to  the  beach,  and  Le  Loup, 
raising  his  rifle,  fired  at  the  Jesuit,  who,  staggering  for 


T 


214 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


a  moment,  reeled  up  against  a  tree,  the  red  blood 
oozing  down  from  a  flesh  wound  in  his  scalp,  but 
otherwise  uninjured.  A  score  of  muskets  were  lev- 
elled, as  many  reports  followed,  and  when  the  light 
smoke  cleared  away,  they  saw  the  Rosalie  lying  a 
riddled  and  sinking  wreck  on  the  still  waves  of  the 
inland  sea,  beneath  whose  waters  the  body  of  Le  Loup 
would  rest  until  the  resurrection.  Thus  Le  Loup  went 
no  more  upon  the  war-path  ;  and  thus  the  cruisings  of 
the  Rosalie  ended. 

But  Du  Thet  and  his  men,  under  cover  of  the  night, 
marched  silently  through  the  chill  mists  of  gloomy 
swamps  and  sombre  forests,  lying  between  them  and 
the  town,  moving  more  carefully  and  stealthily  each 
hour,  until  the  foremost  saw  the  form  of  an  English 
sentinel. 

L'Our  Blanc  spoke  in  a  low  tone  to  one  of  the 
younger  warriors,  who  was  seen  to  steal  gently  towards 
the  unconscious  sentinel,  who  strode  wearily  back  and 
forth,  thinking  of  home,  or  wishing,  perhaps,  for  the 
close  of  his  lonely  watch.  Du  Thet  saw  him  suddenly 
reel  and  fall,  while  the  entire  party  passed  as  quickly 
and  silently  as  possible  into  the  shadows  of  the  woods, 
until  brought  to  a  stand  by  the  reserve  of  the  picket- 
guard,  whose  camp-fires  they  suddenly  came  upon,  and 
warily  approached. 

It  lay  on  the  opposite  side  of  a  little  ravine,  and  by 
its  fires  lay  the  tired  soldiers,  while  an  officer  sat  by 
one  reading  a  letter.  As  he  finished  and  closed  it,  the 
flames,  striking  full  upon  his  face,  revealed  it  to  Ulalie, 
who  started,  and  then,  stringing  her  bow,  raised  it,  and 
placed  an  arrow  on  the  cord. 


•^"T    V**   ."-"■>'  • 


THE   SUMMONS   TO   LOUISBURG. 


215 


Du  Thet  seized  her  arm.  "  If  you  shoot  we  are  all 
lost?  "  said  he. 

"  If  Ulalie  would  be  a  warrior,  she  must  obey  her 
chief,  and  await  his  orders,"  said  L'Our  Blanc,  sternly. 

"  Let  my  uncle,  the  Black  Robe,  and  Hubert,  look 
well  at  the  face  of  the  English  warrior,  that  they  may 
know  him  again,"  muttered  she. 

They  did  so,  as  they  turned  away,  and  then  pressed 
on  until  they  reached  the  inner  trenches  of  the  be- 
siegers, where,  finding  an  almost  unguarded  place, 
they  broke  through  the  lines,  and  gaining  the  cover  of 
the  French  guns,  gave  the  war-cry  of  the  Abenaquis, 
and  were  gladly  admitted,  and  after  being  assigned 
their  stations  and  duties  during  the  siege,  fell  asleep 
in  the  crowded  casemates.  But  ere  they  slept,  Du 
Thet  asked  of  Ulalie,  "  Why  did  you  tell  us  to  look  at 
that  officer  to-night  ?  " 

Her  eyes  flashed  with  a  fire  which  he  had  never 
noticed  in  them  before,  as  she  answered,  "  The  foot- 
prints on  the  sands  are  swept  out  by  the  tides,  and  the 
snow  covers  the  track  of  the  bear ;  but  the  flow  of 
years  cannot  efface  the  recollection  of  those  we  love  or 
hate ;  and  if  age  brings  snowy  locks,  Ulalie's  are  not 
so  gray  that  she  did  not  know  the  betrayer  of  Rosalie." 

A  yell  of  rage  broke  from  the  usually  impassible 
chief.  Du  Thet  became  livid  with  disappointed 
hatred,  and  Hubert  almost;  cried  with  vexation. 
"  Had  I  known  him,  he  should  have  died  had  an 
army  sprung  from  the  ground  at  his  death-rattle,  in- 
stead of  a  paltry  picket-guard,"  said  Du  Thet,  as  he 
moodily  turned  away,  to  sleep  uneasily,  until  the  Eng- 
lish cannon  should  call  the  tired  French  to  defend  the 


2l6 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


torn  and  crumbling  parapets,  until  night  should  again 
interpose  her  friendly  curtain,  bringing  short  peace  and 
welcome  rest  to  the  tired  garrison. 

Thorncliffe,  ignorant  of  the  danger  that  had  threat- 
ened him,  took  pencil  and  paper,  to  answer  the  loving 
words  of  his  wife,  for  it  was  her  letter  that  he  was 
reading  when  the  Abenaquis  stole  past  his  bivouac. 

"  I  will  write  cheerfully  to  the  poor,  trusting  little 
darling,"  thought  he,  "  for  indeed  I  need  not  fear,  since 
that  deserter  told  us  that  neither  Du  Thet  nor  the 
White  Bear  of  the  Souriquois  are  within  the  city  ;  and 
I  fear  none  but  them." 

So  he  wrote  cheerfully  of  the  future,  pleasing  his 
own  mind  with  pictures  of  the  happiness  in  store  for 
them,  in  the  bright  days  to  come,  when,  returning, 
he  should  settle  down  and  lead  a  happy,  quiet  life ; 
and  closing  it,  he  slept  to  be  awakened  the  next  morn- 
ing by  a  frightened  sentry,  who  told  of  the  sudden 
death  of  one  of  his  men  by  an  Indian  arrow. 

"  He  was  on  the  next  post,  and  was  killed  so  quick- 
ly, that  I  did  not  know  it  until  daylight,  when  I  saw 
him  lying  dead,  with  his  musket  still  clenched  in  his 
cold  fingers." 

"  An  Indian  party  has  passed,  for  I  found  their 
tracks  in  yonder  bushes,  and  where  poor  Lyon  was 
killed,"  said  a  veteran  scout. 

The  news  was  corroborated,  when  Thorncliffe  re- 
turned to  camp,  by  a  report  that  the  French  had  again 
been  reenforced  ;  for  already  some  three  hundred  men 
from  Canada  and  Acadia  had  found  their  way  to  the 
assistance  of  the  little  garrison.  But  Thorncliffe's  pre- 
sentiments of  evil  reached  their  height,  when,  a  fc\v| 


*■ 


■  ;'■>■■;'  ^/, 


THE   SUMMONS   TO   LOUISBURG. 


217 


d  again 
lace  and 

i  threat- 
le  loving 
he  was 
'ouac. 
ing  little 
ear,  since 
:  nor  the 
city;  and 

jasing  his 
1  store  for 
returning, 
quiet  life; 
next  morn- 
he  sudden 

• 

d  so  quick- 
rhen  I  saw 
:hed  in  bis 


days  after,  a  deserter  from  the  enemy,  recognized  as  a 
soldier  who  had  the  year  before  been  captured  at  Hali- 
fax, while  out  in  the  woods,  brought  him  a  small 
packet,  containing  the  original  of  the  horoscope,  sent 
him  by  Rosalie. 

On  it  were  four  signatures,  or  rather  three  signatures 
and  two  characters  —  the  first  name  "Gilbert  Du 
Thet ; "  the  second,  "  Hubert  De  Courcy  ;  "  the  third, 
"  Ulalie,"  followed  by  the  figure  of  a  bended  bow ; 
and  lastly,  the  rudely-pictured  effigy  of  a  white  bear. 
Beneath  them  were  two  Latin  words,  and  an  inscrip- 
tion in  Greek  from  Xenophon.  The  words,  "  Vindiccs 
sanguinis "  —  Avengers  of  blood.  The  inscription, 
the  noble  warning  of  Clearchus  to  Tissaphernes,  the 
wily  Persian  satrap  :  "  For  I  neither  know  with  what 
speed  any  one  could  escape  by  flight  the  hostility  of  the 
gods,  nor  into  what  darkness  he  could  run  for  conceal- 
ment, for  all  things  are  subject  to  the  gods ;  and  every- 
where alike  they  rule  all  things." 

And  thus  it  was  that  Thorncliffe  felt  again  like  one 
who  treads  in  darkness  on  the  verge  of  sea-washed 
cliffs. 


found  their 
r  Lyon  was 


lorncliffe  ve- 
3h  had  again 
lundred  men 
ir  way  to  tlie 
•rnclifte's  pre- 
when,  a  few 


*","*?! T''  '^r  '•   .'^, 


•;  i-r%r,'}y-^'-'^>'. 


w 


2l8 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


THE    SALLY. 


AS  may  be  supposed,  the  duties  of  the  scanty  garri- 
son of  Louisburg  were  by  no  means  easy  or 
desirable ;  for,  to  occupy  and  guard  the  long  line  of 
defensive  works  around  the  city,  to  answer  the  heavy 
fire  of  the  enemy,  or  to  sally  upon  his  working  parties 
and  destroy  their  works,  the  Chevalier  Drucourt  had 
but  a  little  over  three  thousand  men,  of  whom  but  two 
thousand  five  hundred  were  disciplined  troops. 

In  the  harbor  lay  six  ships  of  the  line  and  five 
frigates,  whose  fire  was  of  great  use  to  the  city  until 
the  taking  of  the  Lighthouse  Battery  by  General 
Wolfe,  a  few  days  after  the  landing  of  the  English. 
This  battery  was  turned  by  the  English  against  its 
former  masters,  and  did  especial  damage  to  the  ships 
of  the  French  fleet.  But  Drucourt,  with  steady  pur- 
pose, did  all  in  his  power  to  delay  the  capture  of  the 
city  until  reenforcements,  already  nearly  due,  should 
arrive ;  and  his  wife,  with  heroic  bravery,  seconded 
his  efforts. 

One  morning  Du  Thet  and  his  friends  sat  waiting 
for  daylight,  to  reopen  fire  on  the  daily  increasing 
works  of  the  besiegers,  which,  at  first  so  distant  and 
insignificant,  daily  grew  more  terrible  with  heavy  bat- 


'  -:•  'fT 


■,;  ^^;i,' 


,;.,.^      „     - 


THE    SALLY. 


219 


Xy  garri- 
easy  or 
;  line  of 
le  heavy 
g  parties 
ourt  had 
1  but  two 

s. 

and  five 

city  until 
General 

English. 
Lgainst  its 

the  ships 
teady  pur- 
Lire  of  the 
ue,  should 
,  seconded 

sat  waiting 

increasing 

distant  and 

t  heavy  bat- 


teries, while  they  drew,  in  contracting  circles,  nearer  to 
the  town,  as  the  huge  boa  enfolds  its  prey.  Then 
came  lightly' down  the  tread  of  the  banquette,  a  lady, 
with  an  officer  of  high  rank  by  her  side,  in  whom  the 
soldiers  and  our  friends  recognized  the  governor  and 
Madame  Drucourt.  The  sentinel  saluted,  the  rangers 
bowed  respectfully,  or  stood  silent,  as  the  beautiful 
woman  and  her  brave  husband  stopped  by  a  long 
"  thirty-two,"  the  most  powerful  gun  of  that  battery. 
''  I  will  fire  this  to-day,"  said  she. 

At  a  word  from  the  governor,  the  gun  was  loaded, 
and  the  port-fire  lighted,  placed  in  the  hands  of  the 
fair  artillerist,  who  stood  waiting  for  the  mists  to  van- 
ish, that  the  gun  might  be  accurately  pointed. 

"  Gabrielle,  you  shall  fire  one,  too,"  said  madame ; 
and  Hubert  felt  his  blood  recede  from  and  rush  back 
to  his  cheeks  in  torrents,  as  he  heard  the  familiar 
name,  and  saw  the  maid  of  the  governor's  lady,  as  she 
came  timidly  forward,  yet  with  a  stern  look  in  her 
eyes,  as  if  she,  too,  had  wrongs  to  avenge. 

The  gunners  took  their  places,  and  Gabrielle  stood 
by  the  next  gun,  almost  touching  Hubert,  yet  uncon- 
scious of  his  presence.  The  fog  slowly  lifted,  giving 
to  view  the  English  lines.  The  artillerists  pointed  the 
heavy  guns,  and  stepped  one  side,  raising  their  hats 
respectfully.  Madame  Drucourt  came  forward,  and 
raising  her  voice,  said  in  sweet,  clear  tones,  "  For 
France."  Then  she  held  the  flaming  port-fire  to  the 
priming,  and,  with  an  explosion  that  shook  the  ground 
beneath  them,  the  huge  gun  sent  its  heavy  missile  into 
the  opposing  trenches. 
With  loud  cheers  the  French  gunners  sprang  to  their 


220 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


pieces,  and,  loading  quickly,  took  up  the  word,  and 
with  loud  shouts  "  For  France,"  fired  with  astonishing 
skill  and  enthusiasm. 

Gabrielle,  too,  fired  the  gun  assigned  to  her  ;  but  one 
only,  of  all  present,  heard  her  low  words  as  she  touched 
the  priming  with  the  heavy  torch ;  and  he  listened 
like  one  in  a  dream,  as,  dizzy  with  happiness,  he 
heard  his  long-lost  darling  murmur,  "  For  Hubert." 

The  English  replied  almost  instantly,  and  their  hot 
fire  filled  the  air  with  shell  and  shot,  so  that  the  gov- 
ernor's party  were  in  great  danger.  Gabrielle  followed 
them  as  they  retreated  to  the  huge  casemates ;  but  a 
shell  exploded  near  her,  covering  her  with  earth,  and 
she  fell.  Hubert  sprang  forward,  and  raised  her  to  her 
feet.     "Are  you  wounded?"  he  inquired. 

At  the  well-known  voice  she  started,  and  turned 
pale ;  then  saw  that  God  in  his  mercy  had  returned 
to  her  again  the  lover  so  long  deemed  dead  or  lost 
to  her  forever.  She  could  not  speak ;  and  Hubert, 
raising  her  in  his  arms,  carried  her  to  the  casemates, 
where  he  found  her  mistress  anxiously  awaiting  her. 

"  Have  they  killed  her?"  she  inquired. 

"  No,  madame :  she  was  struck  by  a  sod  torn  up 
by  the  English  shot ;  and  on  raising  her,  she  recog- 
nized in  me  her  betrothed,  separated  from  her  by  that 
cruel  edict  of  our  English  enemies.  Her  fear  and 
surprise  seemed  to  overcome  her,  and  so  I  brought  her 
here  for  shelter." 

"  And  you  are  the  Hubert  De  Courcy  of  whom  she 
has  told  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madame." 

"  Then  you  must  not  go  back  to  the  guns  just  yet, 


THE   SALLY. 


221 


until  the  poor  girl  has  had  a  chance  to  talk  with  yoq, 
after  so  long  and  hopeless  a  separation." 

So  it  was,  that  while  the  clear  sky  was  obscured 
by  sulphurous  smoke,  the  air  torn  by  missiles,  and 
filled  with  cries  of  fierce  hate  and  mortal  pain  ;  while 
the  earth  trembled  with  the  heavy  reports  of  many 
cannon,  and  the  massive  masonry  of  the  city  and 
the  thick  sides  of  the  war-ships  were  crumbling  away 
before  the  devastating  bombardment,  amid  wounded, 
sick,  and  dying  men,  and  terrified  women  and  chil- 
dren, Gabrielle  and  Hubert  spent  the  sweetest  hour 
of  their  lives. 

She  told  him  how,  after  many  sufferings,  her  father 
had  reached  the  He  Royale,  and  leaving  her  with 
madame,  who  had  promised  her  protection,  had  re- 
turned to  France,  where  she  was  to  rejoin  him  the 
the  next  year ;  for  she  had  given  up  all  hopes  of  see- 
ing Hubert  again. 

"But  I  will  not  go  now,  unless  you  do,"  said  she, 
smiling  through  the  tears  caused  by  her  sad  rec- 
ollections. 

He  told  her  of  his  own  stormy  life,  the  fate  of 
her  old  playmate  Rosalie,  her  forgiveness  of  her  be- 
trayer, and  his  own  vow  of  vengeance. 

"You  are  wrong,  Hubert.  She  forgave,  having  suf- 
fered much,  and  you  ought  not  to  disregard  her  dying 
wish.  God  will  not  suffer  him  to  go  unpunished.  He 
has  given  us  again  to  each  other,  after  long  and  weary 
months  of  sorrow.  Forget  your  stern  vow,  and  be 
grateful  for  his  favor,  confident  in  his  justice." 

And  at  last  Hubert  went  back  to  the  battery,  almost 
persuaded  to  leave  the  future  to  the  Judge  of  all.    After 


• 


4 


222 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


a  day  of  fierce  and  sanguinary  bombardment,  he  re- 
turned to  Gabrielle,  and  told  her  that  he  was  about  to 
take  part  in  a  sally  on  the  advanced  works  of  the 
enemy. 

She  received  the  tidings  calmly,  as  women  must  and 
do,  when  in  the  midst  of  the  horrors  and  dangers  of  a 
city  besieged  by  land  and  sea  ;  and  with  blessing  and 
kind  wishes,  she  sent  him  away,  that  he  might  rest  a 
while,  after  the  day's  exertion. 

Just  before  morning  he  joined  the  band  who  stood 
near  the  sally-port,  mustering  by  the  light  of  a  single 
lantern.  The  officer  in  charge  read  in  low  tones  the 
muster-roll  of  the  band.  The  men  answered,  some 
cheerily,  but  far  too  many  seemed  sullen  and  discour- 
aged. Hubert  joined  Du  Thet,  who  stood  with  L'Our 
Blanc  and  his  warriors. 

The  drawbridge  was  cautiously  lowered,  and  the 
men  went  across  the  yawning  fosse  into  the  chill  mists 
of  the  intervening  ravine,  which,  ere  day  should  dawn, 
would  become  indeed,  to  many,  "  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death." 

Hubert  felt  his  blood  leaving  his  cheeks  as  he 
thought  of  the  scenes  so  soon  to  follow  ;  of  the  dread 
hereafter,  and  his  own  unfitness  for  death  ;  of  the  hap- 
piness that  life  seeaned  to  offer  him  now  ;  and  he  almost 
wished  to  turn  back,  rather  than  face  the  terrible  bat- 
teries before  him. 

A  young  warrior  walked  by  his  side,  bearing,  instead 
of  a  rifle,  a  bow  and  arrows ;  and  he  noted  with  a 
feeling  of  shame  the  firm  step  and  eager  gaze  into 
the  blinding  fog,  which  showed  the  ardent  desire  of 


THE    SALLY. 


223 


battle  ;  and  looking  to  the  lock  of  his  carbine,  Hubert 
went  swiftly  forward. 

A  flash  lit  up  the  gloomy  mists,  a  musket  sounded 
dully  through  the  thick  air  as  a  picket  gave  the  alarm  ; 
and  as  the  French  sprang  forward  like  tigers,  Hubert 
heard  the  long,  stirring  beat  of  the  drum,  calling  the 
sleeping  soldiers  to  battle.  He  felt  his  blood,  so  chill 
a  moment  ago,  rushing  like  molten  lava  through  his 
swelling  veins ;  and  he  joined  the  Abenaquis  in  their 
wild,  fierce  cry,  to  which  the  war-shout  of  civilized 
men  is  tame  in  its  expression  of  the  fierce  hatred  and 
defiance  of  warring  mortals. 

Through  the  fog  appeared  a  low  wall  of  earth  and 
gabions.  It  was  the  outer  trench,  and  from  behind 
came  the  frequent  flashes  of  the  muskets  of  the  guard, 
and  several  of  the  assailants  fell ;  but  the  others  swept 
on,  over  the  low  parapet,  driving  back  its  surprised 
defenders,  and  filling  the  ditch  with  wounded  and 
dead. 

Here  it  was,  amid  the  horrors  of  that  hour,  which 
neither  thick  darkness  nor  glorious  day  might  claim, 
amid  the  chill  mists,  made  deeper  by  the  murky 
smoke  of  battle,  that  at  last  the  avenger  of  blood 
brought  the  quarry  to  bay. 

The  officers  of  the  English  fought  bravely,  and 
maintained  the  unequal  fight  some  time,  in  hopes  that 
relief  would  arrive  before  the  French  could  possess 
the  works ;  and  as  the  tall  form  of  Thorncliffe  passed 
by  the  remains  of  the  bivouac  fire,  he  was  at  once 
recognized  by  Du  Thet  and  the  others. 

Du  Thet  instantly  forced  his  way  through  the  press, 
and  crossed  swords  with  the  young  officer,  tlirusting 


UIJ^W' 


224 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


and  parrying  with,  it  seemed  to  him,  fur  more  than  his 
usual  skill  and  vigor.  L'Our  Blanc  by  his  side  at- 
tempted to  use  his  hatchet,  but  was  met  by  the  sword 
of  Hamlin,  who  gave  him  all  he  could  do  to  parry  the 
quick  thrusts  of  the  stern  provincial. 

Hubert  tried  in  vain  to  reach  this  group,  who  were 
separated  from  him  by  the  eddying  tide  of  that  fierce 
conflict. 

*'  I  am  Du  Thet,  and  you  shall  not  escape  my  ven- 
geance," shouted  the  Jesuit,  as  he  lunged  fiercely  at 
his  adversary,  whose  heart  was  filled  with  his  old  fear 
and  the  consciousness  of  the  unexpiated  crime. 

But  he  thought  of  his  iiniocent  wife  and  babes  at 
home,  and  determined  to  live  for  them ;  fighting  well 
and  skilfully  until  he  disarmed  the  Jesuit,  who  stood  at 
his  mercy. 

"  I  have  wronged  you  too  mtch  to  take  your  life," 
exclaimed  he  ;  and  the  officers,  side  by  side,  retreated, 
while  Du  Thet  raised  L'Our  Blanc,  who  had  fallen, 
cut  through  the  shoulder,  but  who,  on  reaching  his 
feet,  sprang  into  the  fight  with  increased  fury.  Hubert 
saw  the  danger  of  his  guardian,  but  could  not  fire  his 
carbine  without  endangering  him  ;  and  when  he  saw 
him  spared  by  the  man  whose  life  he  had  so  steadily 
sought  for,  when  he  saw  Thorncliffe  bravely  fighting 
his  way  backward,  step  by  step,  to  the  camp,  he  re- 
membered the  words  of  Rosalie,  and  would  not  use 
his  carbine. 

"  Let  God's  justice  overtake  him,  and  not  my  blind 
vengeance,"  murmured  he ;  and  he  was  about  to  turn 
away  to  another  part  of  the  field,  when  he  saw  the 
young  warrior,  whose  bold  bearing  he  had  noticed  in 


iuMk- 


THE    SALLY. 


225 


than  his 
side  at- 
c  sword 
)arry  the 

rho  wcvc 
iiat  fierce 

my  ven- 
iercely  at 
is  old  fear 

le. 

babes  at 
iting  well 
\o  stood  at 

your  lift^i 
,  retreated, 
had  fallen, 
caching  his 
ry.  Hubert 
not  fire  his 
leii  he  saw 
so  steadily 
ely  figbting 
:amp,  be  re- 
)uld  not  use 

not  my  blind 

about  to  turn 

he  saw  the 

id  noticed  in 


the  morning,  raising  his  bow.  A  moment  the  grace- 
ful weapon  bent  backward  to  its  full  tension,  until 
the  sharp  barb  rested  against  the  delicate  fingers  of  the 
stripling ;  then  the  shaft  flew  through  empty  space, 
and  the  Indian  bent  eagerly  forward,  to  mark  its 
eficct. 

Hubert  saw  it  strike  ThorncHfle  in  the  breast,  and 
the  tall  officer  fell  to  the  ground.  His  comrade  raised 
him  ;  but,  shaking  his  head,  laid  him  again  where  he 
fell,  and  joined  the  retreating  English,  who  were  soon 
met  by  others ;  and  again  the  fight  raged,  until  the 
French  sought  their  works  for  shelter. 

Hubert  saw  the  young  warrior  but  once  after  that, 
and  that  was  in  the  retreat,  and  so  far  ofl",  that  he 
could  not  recognize  him,  even  if  the  war-paint,  which 
lay  in  heavy  lines  of  red  and  black  over  cheek  and 
brow,  had  permitted.  But  ere  the  close  of  the  siege, 
he  saw  in  the  quiver  of  Ulalie  an  arrow,  which  he 
had  often  before  noticed  as  perfect  and  stainless,  whose 
barb  and  feathers  were  red  with  blood,  which  had  been 
permitted  to  remain  uncleanscd. 

And  so  the  "  justice  of  God  was  done,"  and  the  old 
wrong  avenged.  By  the  hand  of  a  woman,  who  had 
warned  him  in  the  days  of  his  love  and  truth,  the  false 
lover  had  fallen.  But  far  away  over  the  blue  sea,  a 
loving  wife  waited  vainly  for  her  lord,  and  babes 
lisped  innocent  prayers  for  a  father  cold  in  death ; 
friends  were  thinking  of  a  brave,  true  man,  who  had 
always  done  his  duty  to  them  and  to  his  country. 

Such  thoughts  -1  after  times  filled  the  mind  of  Hu- 
bert, and  softened  the  stern  heart  of  the  Jesuit.  For 
few  there  are,  good  and  noble,  whose  deeds  have  all 


m 


226 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


been  in  keeping  with  their  lives ;  and  the  sin  of  one 
must  often  be  expiated  by  the  sorrow  of  many. 

Ulalle  had  finished  her  task,  and  kept  her  vow  of 
vengeance  ;  while  in  her  lodge,  until  the  day  of  her 
death,  many  years  afterwards,  were  kept  the  fatal 
shaft,  that  had  avenged,  and  the  tiny  dagger,  whose 
•  blade,  no  longer  spotless,  showed  the  corroding  traces 
of  its  baptism  of  blood. 


227 


of  one 

row  of 
of  lier 
le  fatal 
,  whose 
g  traces 


CHAPTER  XXV. 
"THE  CITY  TWICE  TAKEN." 

THE  siege  progressed.  Day  after  day  the  mas- 
sive parapets  crumbled  into  dust  beneath  the 
fire  of  the  English,  whose  trenches  steadily  approached 
nearer,  unopposed  by  mine  or  desperate  sally.  Daily 
the  sullen  roar  of  the  ceaseless  cannonade  arose  from 
the  English  batteries,  to  be  answered  by  the  lessening 
artillery  of  the  besieged,  who  saw  their  means  of 
defence  rapidly  diminish,  as  gun  and  mortar  were 
hurled  from  their  carriages,  to  lie  useless  amid  the 
bodies  of  mangled  artillerists. 

The  fleet,  whose  heavy  broadsides  had  so  long  kept  at 
bay  the  invader,  had  suffered  fearfully,  until,  of  the  six 
men-of-war,  but  two,  the  Prudent  and  the  Bienfaisant, 
remained ;  the  others,  with  corvette  and  frigates,  had 
sunk  at  their  moorings,  lit  up  the  gloomy  night  with 
their  conflagrations,  or  been  annihilated  by  the  explo- 
sion of  their  own  magazines. 

The  soldiery,  too,  grew  sullen,  despairing,  almost 
mutinous ;  until,  during  the  latter  part  of  the  siege, 
they  could  scarcely  be  induced  to  man  the  guns, 
while  they  utterly  refused  to  join  in  a  sally,  however 
urgent  the  necessity. 

Still  Drucourt  would  not  yield,  but  fought  on,  day 
by  day,  while  his  heroic  wife  stood,  purse  in  hand, 

15 


228 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


upon  the  splintered  platforms,  rewarding  every  deed 
of  daring  with  louis-cVor  or  words  of  kind  praise, 
and  firing,  with  jewelled  hands,  the  heavy  cannon  of 
the  citadel,  vainly  trying  to  infuse  into  the  hearts  of 
men,  worn  out  with  battle  and  ceaseless  vigil,  the 
bravery  and  self-devotion  of  her  own  noble  nature. 

L'Our  Blanc,  Hubert,  and  their  savage  companions, 
indeed,  watched  her  with  admiration,  and  at  her  ap- 
proach their  rifles  were  used  with  greater  celerity; 
while  more  than  one  warrior  fell  in  the  attempt  to 
win  the  praises  and  rewards  of  the  wife  of  the 
governor. 

Du  Thet,  as  in  the  preceding  siege,  threw  himself, 
with  all  his  energy,  into  the  defence  of  the  city,  and  in 
the  crowded  hospitals,  the  councils  of  war,  and  the 
heat  of  battle,  was  ever  the  same  —  stern,  calm,  and 
ready  for  work. 

Of  the  success  of  the  defence  he  scarcely  doubted 
•cX  first ;  and  it  was  only  after  the  loss  of  the  fleet  that 
he  despaired,  and  then  not  because  of  the  disaster,  but 
of  the  omen  that  preceded  it. 

He  had  spent  several  hours  in  working  a  heavy  gun 
in  one  of  the  batteries  commanding  the  harbor ;  had 
kept  up  the  fire  until  the  increasing  shadows  had 
rendered  it  impossible  to  fire  with  precision ;  and, 
worn  with  excitement  and  want  of  rest,  had  wrapped 
himself  in  his  rent  cloak,  and  fallen  asleep ;  his  head 
bowed  upon  the  wearied  right  arm,  which  rested  on 
the  breech  of  a  heavy  mortar. 

As  he  slept,  he  dreamed.  It  seemed  as  if  he  arose 
and  stood  looking,  through  the  shot-widened  em- 
brasures,  upon  the    still  waters    below,   where  the 


THE   CITY   TWICE   TAKEN. 


229 


y  deed 
praise, 
non  of 
arts  of 
gil,  the 
are. 

)anions, 
her  ap- 
jelerity ; 
empt  to 
of   the 

himself, 
^,  and  in 

and  the 
aim,  and 

(T  doubted 

fleet  that 

saster,  but 

tieavy  gun 
rbor ;  'had 
idows  had 
iion;  and, 
d  wrapped 
;  his  head 
1  rested  on 

if  he  arose 

idened  em- 

where  the 


huge  hulls  of  the  Prudent  and  Bienfaisant  loomed 
black  and  indistinct  through  the  misty  night,  relieved, 
now  and  then,  by  the  momentary  glare  of  a  battle- 
lantern  borne  past  a  shattered  bulwark  or  half-open 
port ;  but  all  else  was  shrouded  in  impenetrable 
gloom.  Turning,  he  saw  the  sleepy  sentinel  walk- 
ing, with  unsteady  steps,  along  the  broken  way,  and 
sleeping  forms  wrapped  in  heavy  cloaks ;  among 
them,  his  own.  For,  strangely  enough,  his  spirit 
alone  seemed  to  watch ;  the  grosser  body  lay  resting 
from  its  labors. 

Again  he  looked  forth  upon  the  harbor,  and  his 
vision  seemed  to  increase  a  thousand  fold,  until  he 
saw  the  delicate  tracery  of  the  rigging  of  the  ships, 
the  batteries  on  the  farther  shore,  the  foaming  bar,  the 
hostile  fleet  on  the  heaving  sea  beyond. 

On  the  parapet  beside  him  seemed  to  stand  the 
form  of  the  gigantic  Mambertou,  pointing  with  out- 
stretched arm  to  the  entrance  of  the  harbor ;  and 
a  deep,  low  voice  uttered,  "  Look."  Looking,  he 
saw  a  long  line  of  boats  come  in  over  the  breaking 
seas  of  the  bar,  and  silently  approach  the  French 
ships ;  but  no  watcher  gave  the  alarm  to  their  sleeping 
crew,  no  sentinel  warned  of  danger  from  the  bastions 
around,  until  the  boats  were  close  alongside. 

Then,  too  late,  came  the  fierce  flashes  and  sharp 
reports  of  the  muskets  of  the  ship's  guard,  followed 
by  the  roar  of  cannon,  aimed  too  high  to  injure  the 
boats,  whose  occupants  came  in  at  the  ports,  and  over 
the  nettings,  to  meet  the  inadequate  resistance  of  out- 
numbered and  half-naked  men.  The  soldiery  of  the 
garrison  and  the  dismayed  citizens  seemed  to  throng 


230 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


the  parapet,  filling  the  air  with  curses  and  lamenta- 
tions, which  deepened  as  the  glare  of  the  burning 
Prudent  lit  up  the  glassy  waves,  dotted  with  swim- 
mers and  shattered  boats,  and  the  crowded  parapets, 
from  which  the  cannon-shots,  aimed  in  haste,  could 
not  stop  the  Bienfaisant,  which,  under  English  colors, 
held  her  way  past  lighthouse  and  battery  to  the  sea ; 
while  above  all  rose  the  deep  tones  of  the  dead 
magician :  — 

"  Thou  wilt  contend  longer  in  vain  for  the  city 
twice  taken." 

He  was  awakened  by  the  rush  of  feet  and  cries  of 
rage  and  despair,  while  the  parapet  above  him  was 
thronged  with  men,  the  sky  above  red  with  the  glare 
of  conflagration.  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  looked 
down  on  the  harbor :  before  him  lay  the  reality  of 
his  dream,  —  a  burning  wreck,  a  fire-lit  harbor,  a  cap- 
tured ship  making  her  way  to  the  open  sea,  heedless 
of  the  ill-aimed  guns  of  the  despairing  garrison. 

He  gazed  dreamily  upon  it  for  a  moment,  and  then 
drew  forth  the  mysterious  casket ;  and  again,  as  be- 
fore, another  of  the  tiny  shafts  was  missing.  "  ''Again 
in  the  city  twice  taken^  "  said  he,  slowly  :  "  the  past 
suffering  and  devotion  have  been  in  vain,  for  Louis- 
burg  is  doomed." 

Five  days  afterwards  the  English  held  the  city. 
But  ere  that  time  L'Our  Blanc  and  Ulalie  had  again 
passed  through  the  lines  by  night,  on  their  way  home- 
ward. 

An  order  from  the  general  of  his  sect  recalled  Du 
Thet  to  France,  and  Hubert  and  Gabrielle  were  to 
accompany  him  ;  so,  the  night  before  the  capitulation, 


v^'>'^"^virvi"''f'  *■  -tt*-»v  V » ■  .  ■       ■  *  '^  f' 


THE   CITY  TWICE   TAKEN. 


231 


.menta- 
jurning 
1  swim- 
arapets, 
e,  could 
I  colors, 
;he  sea; 
iie   dead 

the   city 

,  cries  of 
him  was 
the  glare 
id  looked 
reality  of 
or,  a  cap- 
,  heedless 

>on. 

,  and  then 

lin,  as  be- 
"  ''Again 
"  the  past 

for  Louis- 

1  the   city. 
had  again 
way  home- 
recalled  Du 
;lle  were  to 
:apitulation, 


he  stood,  with  his  trusty  comrade,  for  the  last  time  by 
the  guarded  postern  of  the  sally-port.  A  short  delay 
took  place  here,  and  L'Our  Blanc  urged  Du  Thet  to 
leave  the  city  with  him,  in  tones  which,  tremulous 
with  entotion,  betrayed  the  grief  which  he  tried  to 
repress. 

"  Brother,  leave  behind  you  the  city  of  the  king ; 
abandon  it  to  its  doom ;  and  let  us  seek  our  old  for- 
tresses, —  the  woods,  the  mountain  crags,  —  which  the 
cannon  of  the  Anglasheowe  cannot  conquer.  Again 
we  will  hunt  the  moose  and  bear ;  again  sweep  the 
rivers  with  swift  quetan;  again  tread  the  war-path 
against  the  heretic." 

"  I  may  not  come,  though  the  Black  Robe's  heart  is 
sad  at  parting.  The  war  is  over  here,  and  those  who 
go  upon  the  war-path  will  shed  their  blood  in  vain. 
Counsel  your  people  to  peace,  brother,  but  hold  fast  to 
the  faith  I  have  taught  you  ;  and  from  across  the  sea 
I  will  send  to  you  messages  of  love,  and  tidings  of  my 
welfare." 

He  turned  to  Ulalie,  who  stood  near  him  with  bow 
in  hand.  "Take  this  rocket  —  you  know  its  use; 
should  you  pass  the  lines  in  safety,  let  me  know 
it.  And  now,  farewell  on  earth ;  may  we  meet  in 
heaven." 

The  heavy  step  of  the  officer  drew  near,  as  he  came 
with  his  huge  keys ;  slowly  he  opened  the  creak- 
ing postern,  through  which,  one  by  one,  the  warriors 
filed  into  the  still  night  air,  until  L'Our  Blanc  and 
Ulalie  alone  remained.  Ulalie  knelt  before  him  ; 
L'Our  Blanc  followed  her  example.  "  Your  blessing, 
father,"  she  said.     Du  Thet  did  as  she  requested,  with 


232 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


the  tears  stealing  down  his  pale  features,  while  Hubert 
and  Gabrielle  could  not  control  their  sorrow. 

Ulalie  seized  his  hand,  held  it  to  her  lips  and  brow, 
and  arose.  L'Our  Blanc  arose  also,  and,  pressing  the 
hand  of  Du  Thet,  rushed  into  the  gloom  without. 

Ulalie  raised  the  lantern  near  her,  and  drew  the 
tiny  dagger  from  her  belt,  holding  it  in  ihe  full  glare 
of  the  light,  which  disclosed  the  blade  tarnished  and 
rusted  with  blood.  "  The  oath  of  the  old  nurse  has 
been  kept,  and  the  warning  given  at  Minas  has  been 
followed  by  the  punishment  of  its  neglect.  Ulalie  re- 
turns to  her  tribe  again  ;  she  wishes  you  all  blessings, 
.  and  long  life  here ;  she  hopes  to  meet  you  hereafter, 
where  death  comes  not,  and  love  is  eternal." 

She  took  the  light  bow  and  the  slender  rocket, 
her  lithe  figure  passed  through  the  postern,  and  was 
lost  in  the  darkness.  The  little  party  ascended  to  the 
ramparts  above  the  postern,  and  watched,  in  silence, 
the  midnight  sky,  in  the  direction  taken  by  L'Oift* 
Blanc. 

At  last  the  wished-for  signal  was  seen ;  and  as  the 
long  train  of  fire  ascended  into  the  heavens,  culmi- 
nating in  a  shower  of  stars,  Du  Thet,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief,  turned  to  the  nearest  gun,  and  snapped  a  pistol 
over  the  priming ;  and  its  sullen  roar,  echoing  far  in- 
land, bore  the  last  farewell  of  the  warrior  priest  to  his 
faithful  friends,  as  with  heavy  hearts  they  threaded  the 
misty  swamps  between  the  city  and  "  Le  Bras  d'Or." 

On  the  morning  of  the  26th  of  July,  a  body  of  En^;- 
lish  grenadiers  emerged  from  the  trenches,  and  came, 
with  flaunting  colors  and  beating  drums,  up  the  lonj 
unused  road  leading  to  the  west  gate.         . 


»S- 


THE    CITY    TWICE    TAKEN. 


233 


[Hubert 

brow, 
,ing  the 
ut. 

:cw  the 
ill  glare 
hed  and 
irse  has 
las  been 
Jlalie  re- 
)lessings, 
lereafter, 


No  haughty  standard  floated  above  the  grim  cannon, 
no  gunners  stood  with  lighted  port-fires,  ready  to  mow 
down  the  advancing  columns  with  niitraille  and  shell ; 
and  the  Canadian  rangers  gazed  with  heavy  hearts 
at  the  rifles  they  might  not  use.  While  the  victors 
passed  across  the  long  drawbridge,  under  the  massive 
portal,  through  the  torn  and  blood-stained  works,  the 
grass-grown  streets,  to  their  several  stations,  the  red 
cross  floated  over  the  humbled  fortresses  of  fallen 
Louisburg,  —  the  ruined  mart,  the  doomed  seaport, 
the  City  Twice  Taken. 


r  rocket, 
,  and  was 
led  to  the 
n  silence, 
by  L'Oift 

ind  as  the 
ns,  culn^i- 
1  a  sigh  of 
>ed  a  pistol 
oing  far  in- 
)riest  to  his 
ireaded  the 
3ras  d'Or.' 
3dy  of  Eng- 
,  and  came, 
Lip  the  long- 


234 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


THIRTY  YEARS  LATER. 


IN  due  time  the  inhabitants  of  Louisburg  and  the 
adjoining  settlements  were  transported  to  France, 
as  well  as  the  settlers  of  the  Isle  of  St.  Jean,  while 
the  officers  and  soldiers  of  the  two  garrisons  were 
sent  to  English  prisons,  to  await  exchange  or  death ; 
and  Louisburg,  the  prosperous  port,  the  mighty  city, 
was  left  deserted,  the  He  Royale  without  inhabitants, 
save  the  few  remaining  Abenaquis,  and  those  French 
who,  like  their  savage  allies,  had  taken  refuge  in  the 
forests  of  the  interior. 

A  hundred  years  and  more  have  passed  away  since 
then,  and  still  the  desolation  of  the  French  strong- 
hold remains,  except  that  a  small  fishing  village 
stands  over  the  ashes  of  the  proud  old  city ;  and  a 
few  schooners  take  shelter  from  the  autumnal  gales  in 
that  commodious  harbor,  once  crowded  with  huge 
ships,  and  lesser  craft  of  all  descriptions. 

But  we  will  not  dwell  longer  on  this  theme,  but 
hasten  to  draw  our  narrative  to  a  close,  and  to  take  a 
parting  glance  at  the  after  fortunes  of  our  dramatis 
personce, 

Hubert  and  Gabrielle,  on  arriving  in  France,  sought 
out  the  father  of  the  latter,  who  received  them  with 


*-* 


:^'' 


THIRTY   YEARS    LATER. 


235 


and  the 
France, 
1,  while 
,ns  were 
)r  death ; 
;hty  city, 
labitants, 
e  French 
ge  in  the 

way  since 
:h  strong- 
ig   village 


ty; 


and  a 


al  gales  in 
with  huge 

theme,  but 
d  to  take  a 
r  dramatis 

jnce,  sought 
them  with 


open  arms.  He  had  been  successful  in  speculation, 
and  gave  his  cordial  assent  to  the  union  of  the  lovers 
as  soon  as  Hubert  should  be  in  possession  of  sufficient 
means  to  warrant  him  in  assuming  the  support  of  a 
wife.  Hubert  acknowledged  the  reasonableness  of 
this  condition,  yet  almost  despaired  of  ever  complying 
with  it;  the  more  so,  that  he  had  been  bred  to  no 
profession  but  that  of  arms.  Du  Thet  had  disap- 
peared shortly  after  their  arrival,  leaving  him  at  the 
residence  of  Gabrielle's  father. 

He  could  not  go  to  the  Jesuit  for  advice ;  and,  al- 
though he  tried  everywhere,  could  get  nothing  to  do, 
save  day  labor,  or  the  poorly-paid  service  of  the  soldier 
or  sailor.  He  had  nearly  determined  to  enlist,  and  to 
give  up  the  hope  of  ever  espousing  Gabrielle,  when 
his  guardian  suddenly  returned.  He  brought  to  Hu- 
bert a  commission  as  ensign  in  a  regiment  garrisoned 
near  by,  and  insisted  on  the  immediate  solemnization 
of  his  ward's  marriage. 

"  I  am  ordered  to  a  mission  in  South  America,  and 
must  sail  in  three  weeks.  I  may  never  return  again  ; 
certainly  shall  not  for  many  years  ;  and  I  have  set  my 
heart  on  seeing  the  completion  of  your  happiness,  my 
children.  Hubert  has  now  a  fair  income,  and  I  have 
discovered  that  some  property  belonging  to  his  mother 
has  greatly  increased  in  value,  and  will  be  at  his  dis- 
posal as  soon  as  he  is  of  age." 

The  arguments  of  Du  Thet  were  hardly  needed  ;  but 
his  wishes  were  gratified,  and  the  marriage  took  place. 
On  the  day  of  the  ceremony,  Du  Thet  presented  Hu- 
bert with  a  thousand  louis. 


236 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


"  I  have  saved  this,  not  for  myself,  —  for  the  soldier 
of  the  church  needs  not  to  burden  himself  with  gold  and 
its  attendant  anxieties, — but  for  you  and  she  who  sleeps 
at  Tracadie.  When  I  leave  you,  my  children,  I  shall 
leave  behind  all  that  remains  to  me  of  an  earthly  home. 
May  you  make  one  for  yourselves  full  of  love  and  hap- 
piness, and  live  long  to  enjoy  the  love  of  each  other, 
and  of  the  children  whom  God  may  send  you,  to  deep- 
en and  sanctify  your  love." 

A  few  weeks  after,  they  saw  him  for  the  last  time, 
as  he  stood  on  the  deck  of  a  tall  ship,  bound  for  the 
tropics  of  the  New  World  ;  and  returned  home,  to  be 
sad  for  a  while,  but  to  find  comfort  in  their  own  hap- 
piness. 

L'Our  Blanc  and  Ulalie  returned  to  St.  Jean ;  and 
the  former,  in  obedience  to  the  counsel  of  Du  Thet, 
joined  with  others  of  his  tribe  in  the  treaty  of  peace 
and  submission  made  at  Bay  Verte  in  1760.  They 
lived  many  years,  respected  by  their  own  people,  and 
by  the  English,  who  found  L'Our  Blanc  as  honest 
and  quiet  in  peace  as  he  had  been  valiant  in  war ; 
while  Ulalie  was  consulted  by  many  of  the  settlers, 
who  had  heard  of  her  reputation  as  a  seeress.  She 
would  never  accept  of  compensation,  and,  indeed, 
would  seldom  use  her  strange  powers,  unless  she  felt 
a  sympathy  for  the  inquirer  ;  while,  as  she  grew  older, 
she  seldom  appeared  in  public,  and  then  moved  with 
the  grace,  and  almost  the  power,  of  a  queen  among  her 
people.  L'Our  Blanc  did  not  confine  his  residence  to 
any  one  place,  but  roamed,  after  the  fashion  of  his 
tribe,  over  the  whole  of  the  maritime  provinces.  Ula- 
lie, of  course,  accompanied  him. 


THIRTY   YEARS   LATER. 


237 


soldier 
old  and 
o  sleeps 
,  I  shall 
y  home, 
md  hap- 
:h  other, 

to  deep- 

ast  time, 
d  for  the 
[ne,  to  be 
own  hap- 

lean;  and 
Du  Thet, 
^  of  peace 
5o.     They 
leople,  and 
as  honest 
it  in  war; 
he  settlers, 
eress.     She 
lid,    indeed, 
.ess  she  felt 
grew  older, 
moved  with 
n  among  her 
residence  to 
shion  of  his 
rinces.    ^^^' 


To  the  day  of  her  death,  in  her  lodge  hung  the 
silvcr-hilted  dagger,  and  licr  quiver,  containing  the 
shaft,  whose  feathers,  still  ruffled  and  stiftened  with 
gore,  told  of  the  vow,  made  over  the  mound  so  often 
wet  with  her  tears,  fulfilled  between  night  and  day  in 
the  trenches  before  Louisburg. 

Little  more  can  be  said  of  these  two,  save  that  they 
lived  faithful  to  the  religion  they  had  adopted ;  just  to 
all  with  whom  they  had  dealings ;  ever  ready  to  re- 
lieve suffering  or  save  life  ;  and  that  they  died  calmly, 
hopeful  of  a  happier  life  beyond  the  grave. 

Du  Thet  entered  upon  the  duties  of  his  mission  with 
his  usual  energy,  and  lived  many  years  among  the  In- 
dians of  Guiana,  sending  to  his  friends,  from  time  to 
time,  letters  full  of  kind  feeling,  good  wishes,  and 
accounts  of  his  own  labors  and  success.  Thus  for 
years  it  went  on,  until  Hubert  had  begun  to  grow  gray, 
and  wore  the  epaulets  of  a  colonel ;  while  Gabrielle 
claimed  as  her  "  children  "  a  spruce  young  captain,  a 
promising  young  physician,  and  a  whole  bevy  of 
laughing  girls  from  sweet  sixteen  to  romping  eight ; 
and  then  there  came  to  them  a  letter  from  that  distant 
shore,  addressed  by  a  stranger's  hand,  while  a  heavy 
seal  of  black  told  them  but  too  well  that  their  old 
friend  had  found  rest  from  his  labors. 

Hubert  opened  the  letter,  and  found  two  sheets  close- 
ly written —  one  in  the  well-rernembered  chirography 
of  the  Jesuit,  the  other  in  the  same  writing  as  the  direc- 
tion of  the  packet.  Du  Thet  had  written  as  follows :  — 
"  I  have  told  you,  my  children,  of  my  past  follies,  and 
of  the  strange  events  which  gave  to  me  warnings  of 
the  future,  and  foreshadowings  of  the  destiny  of  a  con- 


238 


TWICE    TAKEN. 


|j'.    !■: 


tinent.  I  remember,  even  now,  how  you  stood  breath- 
less beside  me,  beneath  the  moonlit  mystical  night,  on 
the  deck  of  the  ship  which  bore  lis  to  France ;  how 
strange  awe  filled  your  faces  as  I  told  of  the  two  visions 
already  past,  of  the  third  yet  to  come. 

"Now  that  it  has  come,  and  that  I  feel  my  'days 
are  numbered  ; '  now,  after  I  have  made  such  disposi- 
tion of  my  few  possessions  as  pleases  me,  and  arrange- 
ments for  the  future  continuation  of  the  work  which  I 
leave  unfinished,  in  the  firm  belief  that  God  will  raise 
up  another  worker  in  his  vineyard  more  useful  than 
I,  —  I  write  these,  my  last  sentences,  to  you,  that  you 
may  not  only  hear  the  sequel  of  my  weird  story,  but 
the  lesson  which  I  have  learned,  thus  late  in  life, 
when  tlie  gates  of  eternity  are  about  to  open  to  re- 
ceive me. 

"  I  was  sitting,  six  hours  ago,  in  this  same  glade. 
Above  me  the  delicate  vines,  the  slender  shafts,  and 
broad  fronds  of  the  graceful  palms  ;  the  air  filled  with 
the  drowsy  hum  of  insect  life,  the  many  sounds  of  a 
tropical  forest.  In  view  were  the  little  chapel,  my 
cottage,  and,  by  the  river,  those  of  the  settlers. 

"  As  I  sat,  I  fell  into  a  reverie,  in  which  the  events 
of  my  own  life  seemed  to  pass  in  review  before  me. 
I  recalled  the  happy  days  of  my  childhood,  the  ardent 
love  and  bitter  disappointments  of  youth,  the  man- 
hood devoted  to  my  country  and  the  service  of  the 
church. 

"  I  saw  how,  in  the  stern  scenes  of  war  and  polit- 
ical intrigue,  my  zeal  for  French  domination,  and  the 
success  of  the  church,  had  at  times  led  me  into  error. 
But,*on  the  other  hand,  I  recalled  the  noble  sacrifices, 


THIRTY   YEARS   LATER. 


239 


breath- 
ight,  on 
e ;  how 
►  visions 

ly  '  days 
disposi- 
arrangc- 
whicli  I 
vill  raise 
;ful  than 
that  you 
,tory,  but 
:    in  life, 
en  to  re- 

ne  glade, 
lafts,  and 
lUed  with 
unds  of  a 
lapel,  my 
irs. 

the  events 
)efore  me. 
the  ardent 
the  man- 
dee  of  the 

and  polit- 
Dn,  and  the 

into  error. 
e  sacrifices, 


made  by  so  many  for  the  same  interests,  which  have 
been  in  vain,  and  I  asked  of  myself,  why  so  much 
blood,  so  many  noble  lives,  should  be  given  for  a 
doomed  cause ;  and  I  murmured  against  and  ques- 
tioned the  justice  of  Heaven. 

"  Then  I  reclined  in  my  hammock,  swung  beneath 
the  matted  lianas,  amid  whose  scarlet  bells  the  hum- 
ming-birds sought  their  food,  and,  with  half-closed 
eyes,  pursued  the  same  strani  of  thought,  until  I  may 
have  slept ;  for  my  vision  came  and  went,  and  I 
seemed  to  awake,  at  its  close,  as  if  from  profound 
slumber. 

"  I  saw  before  me  the  same  tranquil  scene  I  have 
already  described ;  but  a  strange  mist  seemed  to  arise, 
hiding  the  dwellings  of  men  from  view,  and  dimming 
the  light  of  day.  Through  these  vapors,  and  indis- 
tinctly seen  at  first,  appeared  a  savage  horde ;  and  I 
thought  that  the  dense  tropical  forests  to  the  south- 
ward had  poured  forth  their  myriad  warriors,  as  of 
old  the  forests  and  mountain  ranges  of  Northern 
Europe  had  deluged  her  southern  lands  with  fierce 
Goths.  But  as  my  vision  became  more  distinct,  I 
saw  my  mistake.  Instead  of  naked  warriors,  with 
rude  war-clubs  and  slender  gravatanas,  with  their 
slight  poisonous  shafts,  I  recognized  the  tribes  of  the 
Abenaquis  ;  and  among  that  cloud  of  dark,  fierce  faces 
many  well  known  to  me  in  the  old  days  spent  with 
you,  my  children,  in  those  northern  wilds. 

"I  saw  L'Our  Blanc's  black  plumes,  and  the 
features  that  I  had  seen  so  often  brighten  with  the 
stern  light  of  battle  ;  the  calm  face  of  his  gentle  wife, 
the  Summer-Lake;   Cubenic's  slender  and  graceful 


240 


T\nCE   TAKEN. 


4 


form ;  Ulalie*s  lithe  figure,  and  dark,  loving,  impas- 
sioned eyes ;  and  Loup  Cervier's  visage,  seamed  with 
scars,  and  horrid  with  war-paint. 

"  These  I  saw,  with  many  others,  and  behind  them 
myriad  faces,  growing  more  and  more  indistinct  in  the 
distance,  but  before  them  all  stood  the  lofty  form  of 
the  pride  of  their  race,  the  mighty  warrior,  the  wise 
ruler,  the  friend  of  the  French  —  Mambertou. 

"  The  stillness  was  unbroken,  as  his  low,  deep  tones 
arose,  as  I  heard  them  years  ago,  in  the  city  twice 
taken,  on  the  wooded  banks  of  the  Nepan,  in  the 
forest  shades  where  I  watched  the  dead  in  the  moon- 
lit Isle  of  St.  Jean. 

"  '  Servant  of  the  church,  I  come  again  to  redeem 
and  fulfil  the  promise  made  years  ago  by  the  death- 
bier  of  one  of  our  race,  and  to  warn  thee  that  thy  life's 
task  is  ended  —  that  thy  days  are  numbered.  One 
lesson  remains  yet  unlearned  by  thee,  for  thou  hast 
questioned  the  justice  of  Heaven. 

" '  Look  on  these  who  surround  thee :  once  they 
blindly  thought  of  a  great  intelligence,  that  had  created 
and  blessed  all  men ;  of  another,  which  harmed  and 
tempted  ;  and  they  believed  that  to  gain  heaven,  men 
must  be  brave  and  honest,  returning  good  for  good, 
and  evil  for  evil.  Your  priests  came  among  us,  teach- 
ing a  purer,  holier  faith  :  the  forgiveness  of  our  sins ; 
our  obligation  to  forgive  the  wrong  done  by  others ; 
and  a  clearer,  higher  idea  of  the  life  to  come.  But  at 
the  same  time  they  taught  us  intolerance  and  bigoted 
hatred  of  those  who,  believing  in  the  same  God,  the 
same  Savior,  still  differed  from  you  in  some  cere- 
monies and  forms  of  worship  and  belief;  while  they 


THIRTY   YEARS    LATER. 


241 


\ 


sought  to  build  up  their  country's  power  at  the 
expense  of  the  purity  of  the  church,  hoping  that  the 
power  of  the  state  would,  in  years  to  come,  repay  by 
its  support  those  sacrifices. 

"  *  Yet,  as  those  who  lived  in  the  dark  ages  before 
us  lived  not  in  vain,  neither  have  we,  who  have  seen 
but  the  glimmerings  of  day.  Thou,  too,  hast  given* 
tliy  life  and  energies  to  the  spread  of  thy  church  ;  thou 
hast  repented  of  the  evil  thou  hast  done ;  thou  shalt 
receive  a  servant's  reward.' 

"  The  voice  ceased.  The  huge  assemblage  melted 
into  the  surrounding  vapors,  which,  in  turn,  fled  be- 
fore the  rays  of  the  noonday  sun  ;  while  I  lay  quietly 
in  my  swaying  hammock  beneath  the  tall  palms,  un- 
certain whether  I  had  seen  or  dreamed  the  vision  I 
have  described.  I  felt  in  my  bosom  for  the  tiny 
casket,  but  it  was  no  longer  there ;  and  I  now  know 
that  my  end  is  near. 

"  Since  that,  I  have  arranged  all  my  affairs,  and  I 
now  spend  a  part  of  what  remains  of  my  existence 
here  in  writing  to  you,  '  my  children,'  as  I  call  you  ; 
for,  as  you  know,  we  may  never  have  a  home  and 
children  of  our  own.  I  have  loved  3'ou  as  none  would 
believe  that  Gilbert  Du  Thet,  the  Black  Robe  of 
Chignecto,  could  love  or  esteem  any  on  earth  save  his 
order,  or  country. 

*'  And  now,  I  bid  you  a  solemn  and  tender  farewell, 
for  I  cannot  question  the  certainty  of  my  warning.  I 
shall  continue  to  perform  the  duties  of  my  office  ;  and 
even  now  I  hear  the  bell  of  my  chapel  calling  my 
^  flock  to  their  evening  prayer.  I  see  the  little  group 
of  French  and  Indians  approaching,  and  I  must  go  to 


'7^'  ■■  •  '/^*-''™"r  c"  .'. 


242 


TWICE   TAKEN. 


meet  them,  as  I  have  done  for  many  years  past ;  and, 
hoping  to  meet  you  in  a  better  and  happier  world,  I 
bid  you  a  loving  farewell  in  this. 

From  your  father  in  Christ, 
%.  Gilbert  Du  1'het." 


k  The  other  sheet  was  an  official  document,  setting 
*  -^th  the  fact  that  "  the  Reverend  Father  Gilbert 
Du  Thet,  having  attended  vespers,  as  usual,  on  the 
evening  of  the  14th  of  May,  1788,  suddenly  received  a 
paralytic  shock,  from  which  he  never  recovered,  but 
remained  insensible  until  he  expired  at  midnight,  to 
the  great  grief  of  the  residents  of  this  district." 

Fidele  and  Christine  evaded  the  general  extradition 
of  the  settlers  of  St.  John,  after  the  fall  of  Louisburg, 
by  taking  refuge  in  the  deep  forests  in  the  interior ; 
and  their  descendants,  under  the  mild  rule  of  the 
queen  of  another  people,  are  scattered  over  the  island 
—  no  longer  L'lle  de  St.  Jean,  bul  Prince  Edward 
Island. 

And  now  the  author  of  this  fanciful  dream  of  a 
past  age,  an  historical  era,  —  this  narrative  of  possible 
events,  —  lays  down  his  pen  at  its  close,  hoping  that 
among  its  readers  some  may  be  able  to  enjoy  this 
day-dream  of  a  student's  fancy,  and  feel  regret  at 
thus  reaching 


the  end. 


:'m^ 


ast;  and, 
world,  I 


i'HET." 


it,  setting 
ir  Gilbert 
il,  on  the 
received  a 
^ered,  but 
dnight,  to 
t. 


>» 


extradition 
Louisburg, 
e  interior ; 
lie  of  the 
the  island 
:e  Edward 


•,-f «-v„.   ''^ 


>f;:- 


Iream  of  a 
of  possible 
moping  that 
enjoy  this 
;1  regret  at 


.1 


-..^r" 


